An Uphill Battle (The Southern Roots Series Book 2)

by LK Farlow

  “Drake,” she whispers up at me, all breathless, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  “Bit, what on earth have you been up to?” I ask her just as Brent rounds the car and joins her.

  “Just went for a drink. Needed to clear my mind—to forget.”

  I bristle at her words, because if her stubborn ass would’ve just listened, this night could’ve ended a hell of a lot differently.

  “Wanna tell him what else you got up to?” Brent asks. Azalea looks down at her feet, mumbling to herself. “Cat got your tongue? I’ll tell him, then. Found your girl over at Bryn’s Bar, good and drunk, and on her way out the door with some Joe Schmo. She could barely walk, and he damn sure looked up to no good.”

  Anger rockets through me, and I clench my fists at my sides so tightly that it feels like my knuckles are at risk of bursting through my skin. Nevertheless, I nod for him to continue.

  “I set that jerkoff straight—sent him on his way—and put your girl in my car. Drove straight here. Not gonna lie to you though, man. She came onto me.”

  Azalea still hasn’t looked at me, and I’m seething, my vision tinged red. Silently, I count down from ten to one and back again before gripping Azalea’s chin and tilting her eyes to mine. “You kiddin’ me with this shit, Little Bit?”

  She shivers at the gravel in my tone. “I–I was upset and wanted to . . . forget. So, I went out. Had a few drinks.”

  “And tried to hook up with not one, but two different guys, both of which weren’t me.”

  “They . . . I . . . he made me feel wanted. I just want to feel wanted.”

  “You want to feel wanted?” I parrot her words back to her in disbelief.

  “Yeah, Drake. You don’t want me—” I let out a primal growl, and I slam my fist into my front door, stopping her in her tracks, thankfully shutting her up.

  “Jesus Christ, Azalea. Are you serious right now? Do you even hear yourself? I’ve all but fucking spelled it out for you. Laid all my cards on the table, and I don’t know if you’re just ignorant, oblivious, or so damn blinded by the past that you can’t see what’s in front of you. But know this. I’m. Done. I’m so fucking done.”

  Her lower lip trembles, and I almost cave. “Done? I–I thought you said you’d always lo–love me.”

  “And I will, but I’m sure as shit done chasing you.”

  “B–but, Drake—”

  “But nothing, Azalea. Go home.” I turn to Brent, and we silently communicate that he’ll drive her home. Dejected, pissed, and so damn angry, I turn back toward the door, jaw locked to fight the overwhelming desire to turn around and kiss away the pain on her face. But I can’t. I won’t. It’s high time I put myself first, even if it fucking kills me.

  “You don’t mean that!” she hollers at my retreating back, her voice hoarse and shaky.

  “I’ve never said anything I meant more. Go home. There’s nothin’ here for you.” I yank open the door to my house, giving her a clear view of Kelly sitting on my couch before slamming it behind me, the noise of the wooden frame creaking and her sobs the soundtrack of my heartbreak.

  19

  Azalea

  “C’mon, stupid girl, let’s get you home,” Brent says to me, but I’m immobile. I can’t seem to peel my tear-flooded eyes from Drake’s front door. She’s here. With him. In his home, looking every bit as comfortable as I ever did. “I mean it, let’s go. I got shit to do, and babysittin’ your ass is cutting into my plans.”

  When he tugs my wrist, I give way and stumble along behind him. This time, he doesn’t open the door for me. He just stands there glaring until I climb in and buckle. He climbs in and I go to tell him my address, but he swipes and taps at his phone screen and the navigation app starts spouting directions before I get the chance.

  Brent doesn’t speak to me, much less look at me, the entire drive to my apartment, and I just don’t get why he’s so mad. What did I ever do to him? We make it to my house in record time, and he slams his truck into park. “One of your friends will be here soon. I’ll wait with you till then.”

  I brave a glance at him and wince at the hard set of his jaw. “Why’re you so angry with me?”

  “Azalea, I’m gonna be real with you, okay? You’ve made a lot of stupid-ass choices tonight, and you probably blew any chance you had with Drake. I don’t know what you think you know, but truth is, you don’t know shit.”

  His words claw and nip at the anger already brewing in me, agitating me even further. “What I know, Brent, is that the only man I’ve ever loved is holed up with the same two-bit whore who—”

  “Watch your mouth, little girl,” Brent shouts, the sound of it stopping me in my tracks. “Say one more word about my woman, and you’ll be waitin’ your ass outside the truck in the cold for your friend.”

  “I’m . . . your what?” I hear him, but I’m not following.

  “Kelly James, soon to be Matheson. I’m not sure why you think she’s his, but I can guaran-damn-tee you, she’s mine.”

  I snort. I don’t mean to, I really don’t, and even though I’m mostly sober after my showdown with Drake, I’m blaming the alcohol for my next words. “Then your woman’s a whore.”

  “That’s it. Get out,” Brent roars as he reaches across me and flings my door open. “Get the fuck out.”

  “You’re just gonna leave me here?” I yell at him.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere until your friend’s here, but you can wait out there. Go. Now.”

  I do as he says, realizing that somewhere between the bar and here, I managed to lose my clutch, with my I.D. and keys. Talk about a cherry on top. Propping myself against my front door, I settle in to wait for whoever is on their way.

  My red dress, while killer, does absolutely nothing to keep me warm while waiting. The cool November wind whips around me, and I hunch my shoulders, trying to huddle around myself. I keep my eyes locked on my shiny heels, but my mind is a whirlwind, trying to process everything that’s happened. If Kelly is with Brent, maybe I did jump to conclusions about her and Drake. Maybe I should’ve listened to what he had to say instead of just assuming.

  Or maybe Kelly really is a whore, playing us all. Maybe Drake doesn’t care that he’s with his employee’s fiancée, and maybe Brent’s as dumb as a box of rocks. At this point, there are more maybes than anything else, and I’m way too tired and cold to make sense of much of anything. If only my mind would stop racing and presenting me with one outrageous possibility after another.

  The one thing I know for sure is that tomorrow is gonna hurt—in more ways than one.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here, on the little bench in front of my apartment, freezing my tail off. Long enough that my cheeks are rosy and my nose is runny, and my toes are tingling. So, it’s no surprise that I just about jump for joy when I see Magnolia’s little beat-up Honda jump the curb as she turns into my parking lot.

  I watch her with an almost morbid fascination as she tries to park, backing out and straightening no less than four times. Someone needs to give that girl driving lessons, stat, which is a strange thing to say, given that she’s twenty-five years old.

  Once she’s successfully parked, and by successfully, I mean mostly in the lines, she hops out and dashes over to me with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “S–sorry I took so long. I had to go get your key from Seraphine. Hope you don’t mind that I came. Her dad is in a b–bad way.” Her words come out in one jumbled mass, save for her slight stutter.

  “Not at all. Let’s just go inside,” I tell her as we make our way to my door. Brent waits until we’re inside before pulling away. That’s the thing about Southern boys—they’re gentlemen even when they’re assholes.

  After locking the door, I throw myself back onto my couch. “Ugh, what a fluster-cluck!” I mutter into my hands.

  Softly, Magnolia claims the seat next to me. “I don’t wanna pry, but is everything okay?”

  I laugh a humorless laugh. “No, not reall
y.”

  “Well, I may not know much in the way of relationships and love, other than what not to do, but I’m a good listener. I mean, if–if you wanna talk, that is.”

  I take my time replying, studying her as I gather my words. I scan her, taking in her shampoo commercial-worthy hair, her sad blue eyes, and the way she always pulls her shoulders in as if she’s trying to minimize the space she takes up. There’s so much we don’t know about Magnolia, and I guess in turn, so much she doesn’t know about all of us, which I guess is what makes unloading my problems on her so easy. She doesn’t have any preconceived notions or opinions. She’s a blank canvas for me to spill my story on.

  “I’m in love with Drake, like I want his last name and little farmer babies, but I messed it all up. Like I mess everything up.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Magnolia whispers, and I shake my head.

  “It’s very true. Drake and I . . . we have a history together. I’ve known him since I was thirteen, and I’ve loved him just as long. Growing up, he was always there for me, ya know? And I never thought he felt the same way, and then one day, he called me beautiful, and hope—that silly bitch—started growing in my heart. I thought maybe, just maybe, he could feel the same way, ya know?

  “But every time we took a step forward, we took two back. Anytime I was single, he was taken, and anytime he was single, I wasn’t. I convinced myself that it was just bad timing, nothing more. Right before he left for college, I decided to make my move, and let’s just say it blew up in my face. In the worst way.”

  “How? Wh–what happened?” Magnolia asks.

  “I got all dressed up, in my best red dress.” Another laugh, devoid of humor, passes my lips. Apparently, red dresses, me, and Drake don’t go together. “And I showed up at a party I knew he’d be at. Long story short, we made out, and his girlfriend—well, a girl he claims he was ‘talking’ to—walked in. I didn’t know.”

  “Oh. That’s not so bad though, if they really were just talking, right?” Her voice is so calm and soothing that I keep right on spilling my guts.

  “Yes and no. It’s—ugh. I don’t know my dad. I know of him, but I’ve never met him.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  I hold up a hand to stop her. “Don’t be. He’s a dirty-dog of a man. Met my mom when she was young and filled her head with stories of the future they could have together. Whisked her away for long, exotic weekends. Always took her on extravagant dates, but he never took her to his house, ya know?

  “I don’t know how she never found that odd, but whatever. Anyway, four months into their relationship, Mom turns up pregnant with me, and as the story goes, he flipped. Told her to get an abortion—that he couldn’t have an illegitimate child destroying his family.”

  Mags gasps, “His f–family?”

  I nod. “Yup. Old dog was married, with two kids. Said his wife wasn’t meeting his needs and that he needed a break and some flavor, not another tax-dependent mouth to feed. That was the end of them. He gave her the money to, in his words, ‘fix shit,’ but she used it to start over. Her family disowned her for getting pregnant before marriage, so she moved here, to Dogwood.

  “I guess I didn’t realize it until everything with Drake happened at the party, but for the first decade of my life, Mom was a man-hater. She always went on about it, went on about love being nothing more than a crock. Said men were all cheaters and liars. Of course, she changed her tune when she met my pops. But, that’s a different story for a different day. Point is, when Drake kissed me while he was technically with someone else, it made me feel like my mom. He made me the ‘other woman,’ and it hurt so, so bad.” Pausing my story, I wipe away the moisture coating my cheeks. “I guess I never really let go of how him kissing me then made me feel. I mean, I thought I did, but well . . . and then everything recently stirred up those feelings something fierce, and I kind of lost it, and now, I’ve lost him. Serves me right, I suppose.”

  Gently, hesitantly, Magnolia reaches out and takes my hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. That’s it. Nothing else, just “I’m sorry,” and I know she means it. If only apologizing to Drake would be as easy.

  20

  Drake

  Kelly and I sit a cushion’s width apart on my couch, the TV playing in the background as we wait for Brent. It’s almost two hours later when he makes it back to my place, and being that it’s damn-near sunrise, I offer them my spare bedroom to crash.

  “Thanks, brother,” Brent says, shaking my hand and patting my shoulder before leading Kelly down the hall.

  I follow suit, stripping down to my boxers before climbing into my bed. I press my face into the pillow and groan. My sheets still carry her scent, and it’s the sweetest fucking torture. Knowing that this is the closest I’ll probably ever get to her again, I cocoon myself in the sheets, wrapping them all around me so that her peaches-n-cream sweetness surrounds me.

  I drift off to sleep with our entire history playing like a movie in my mind. From the moment we met, to our first kiss, to scaring off the little punks who wanted to date her. She’s so much a part of my life—a part of my history—that I’m honestly not sure how we move forward from this.

  Or if we even can.

  I blink myself awake, struck by the amount of light spilling in through my bedroom window. I’m typically up long before the sun, and for the first time in years, I slept in. Rolling over, I check the time. It’s past eight. “Damn,” I mumble to myself. I haven’t slept this late since high school.

  I take my time showering and getting dressed. Anything to keep me from checking my phone. I don’t bother taking it with me when I head toward my kitchen, desperate for coffee. “Hey there, sleepyhead,” Kelly greets me, standing to grab me a mug.

  “G’morning. You been up long? Where’s Brent?” I ask her, savoring that first sip.

  “He got up early to help your dad. Figured you wouldn’t be much for it today.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “And naw, I’ve only been up for about fifteen minutes. I don’t do so well staying up late.”

  “Shit, me neither. Not with how early I usually rise.”

  “Brent should be back soon. Said he wouldn’t be gone too long. You heard from your girl?”

  Sighing, I drop my head back, resting it against the solid wood of the cabinet door. “Don’t know, haven’t looked.” I sigh again. “I honestly don’t know what’d be worse . . . an inbox full of texts or nothing at all.”

  “Think of it like this,” Kelly suggests. “If you haven’t heard from her at all, maybe she just doesn’t care.”

  I deflate at her words, because shit. What if she’s right? What if Azalea doesn’t care? No. That’s insane. She cares. If she didn’t, none of this shit would even be happening. She cares, I assure myself again and again as I polish off the last of my coffee.

  I’m refilling my mug when Brent walks in. “Rough night, yeah?” he asks.

  “The roughest. Sorry to drag you into it.”

  “Not a problem. Kells, why don’t you go get dressed, and we can head home?” She follows his directions, quietly placing her mug in the sink before trotting off down the hall.

  “It’s so weird the way she listens to you, no lip at all,” I tell him.

  “She’s the kind of woman who . . . well, let’s just say I speak her language.”

  I hold up my hands. “Say no more.”

  “Listen, about last night, brother. Your girl is a mess. But sometimes, life’s messes end up our biggest blessings. Give her time. She’s probably embarrassed and hungover and maybe even a little mad still. Let her work her shit out internally first. She’ll come to you. Just be patient and wait.”

  “How, though? How do I wait? Do I call her and check on her?”

  “No. You do nothing. You just wait. What’s that saying? ‘If you love something, set it free’? Yeah, that’s it. Set her free and let her find her way back.” Kelly walks back out into the kitchen and laces her fingers with his, laying her
head on his shoulder.

  “You ready?” she asks him, gazing up at him with love written all over her face.

  “Sure thing. D, be strong, brother. Oh, and don’t worry ’bout your truck. Your dad and I went and got it this morning, it’s parked out front.”

  “Thanks. For everything,” I tell them, locking up after they leave.

  Not quite ready to check my phone, I kill time washing the dishes and vacuuming the entire house, which only delays the inevitable by about forty-five minutes. Resigned and agitated, I stow the vacuum and make my way back to my bedroom.

  With rocks in my stomach and butterflies in my throat, I grab my phone off the nightstand where it was charging. My heart soars when I see that I have two unread texts. My hands shake as I pull up my message screen. One from Magnolia telling me Azalea is home safe and sleeping it off, and one from Cash asking me if I want to grab lunch.

  Guess that settles that.

  I fire off a text to Cash telling him lunch sounds good and to invite Simon to tag along. Guy time is just what I need to get a certain blonde heartbreaker off my mind.

  I’m dragging ass as I make my way into Buster’s, our favorite sports bar. “C’mon, D, we’ve been waitin’ on your slow ass forever,” Simon calls out the second I round the hostess stand.

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s eat,” I tell him, trying not to sound like a whiny-ass.

  The hostess’s eyes dart between us as she gathers three menus. “Uh, y’all can follow me,” she tells us, eyeing Cash hard. Subtly, he flashes his wedding band, and she quickly turns to grab three rolls of flatware. “Right this way, gentlemen.” She guides us out to the patio section, facing Main Street.