Page 30 of Until Tomorrow (Love Doesn’t Cure All: The Ashwood Duet #1)

Rhett

The woman who walked into the bar didn’t belong here. She didn’t fit in. In a bar full of indistinguishable women, she was the kind of woman country songs were written about. And I’d know, considering I sang country songs.

She was a showstopper with those onyx curls soft around her shoulders and piercing blue eyes. That red dress of hers hugged the kind of curves a man could get lost in for days. Fair skin, shapely legs, luscious lips. I couldn’t look away.

And when her gaze found mine… fuck, I felt it in my soul.

Suddenly, not a damn thing around me mattered.

Fuck my set. Fuck my buddy’s birthday drinks.

Fuck it all. I wanted to vie for five seconds of her time—to plead my case about why she should spend the night with me and not whoever she was meeting, because there was no way that woman was here alone. It’d be a tragedy if she were.

“Hey.” Sam—my best friend—smacked me hard in the chest with the back of his hand. “Earth to Rhett.”

“What?” I demanded gruffly. I tore my eyes away from her, not wanting to but knowing I had to. Sam would give me shit if he knew I was staring at some strange woman.

“Do you ever listen to me?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing—not that I could see much behind that mop of blond hair he had.

“No.” I grinned as he shook his head.

“ Fucker.”

“What’s going on?” I made a small gesture to get him talking. Mostly, I was impatient and wanted to catch another glimpse of the gorgeous woman in red. “You had something to say…”

“We need to do an equipment test—”

“I’ve got it.”

“Don’t worry. I know you hate—”

“I said I’ve got it,” I reiterated. He was right.

I hated equipment tests. Usually, one of us did a short number solo just to make sure the mics were working.

We knew most places we played at were crap at upkeeping their basic equipment.

We always did a test. The one time we hadn’t, the mic never worked in the first half of the show.

I damn near wrecked my vocal cords trying to be heard at the back of that venue. Never again.

“You sure?” Sam asked once more. Not surprised. I never did the mic test. He called me a diva for it, but I didn’t see the point in it having to be me. I’d be singing the rest of the night anyway as our band’s lead.

“Just get me my Fender,” I said.

“You never play—”

“Do you want the test done or not?” I interrupted. Jesus fuck, he didn’t need to argue with me at every turn.

He grumbled something under his breath as he walked away and returned a minute later with my acoustic-electric guitar. I rarely used the thing, especially during gigs. I just brought it everywhere I could. You know, on the off chance I needed it.

As I sat on a stool, Sam adjusted the mic for me. I wasn’t one for introductions or making a spectacle of myself to make sure bar-goers paid attention to me. My music did that for me. And maybe, if the stars aligned, she’d pay attention as well.

Singing was the only way I ever set myself apart in a crowd.

Sure, I had a ton of piercings and was covered in tattoos, but those weren’t catching.

They were off-putting to most, considering I was in my late thirties.

But when I sang? People stopped for that.

I could’ve done more than a country cover band if I wanted, but I didn’t.

I was happy keeping it stress-free and a minor paid hobby.

We made enough on these gigs to cover a few rounds of drinks, but none of us cared about the cash.

Hell, we usually sent all the cash home with Lance—our single-dad drummer raising two kids under five.

My fingers strummed along the strings, every note ingrained in my physical being. Whether it was my first time or my thousandth, I played with my whole heart. It was the only way I knew how.

I honed in on her as I sang, trapped in whatever hold she had on me as those endless blue eyes watched. Those painted lips of hers moved slightly. Was she singing? Lip-singing? Did she even know the words, or was she just moved?

That little rhythmic sway in her hips was tantalizing. What I would’ve given to be standing there with her, my body in sync with hers.

They were odd thoughts to have. Thoughts I never imagined I’d have again. It’d been a very long time since anyone inspired anything in me. Grieving hearts were funny like that. The world had long been a black-and-white event, but here she was, bleeding color where it was once missed.

The woman did things to me that I’d long given up on.

But it was just a moment. A pause in time long enough to last the duration of a song before it passed. After all, that was all music was: a single moment in time. The effect it left behind was what mattered.

Maybe if I was lucky, I left my imprint on her.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Lance asked with a laugh when I stepped off the small stage.

“Nowhere,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Sam replied. Yeah, he wasn’t buying my shit. He’d known me too long for that. “You’ve never played that song.”

“What? I’m allowed to practice shit in my own time without you fuckers,” I snapped without an ounce of malice. That was true. Insomnia meant late hours on my guitar, waiting for sleep to become a thing.

I glanced over my shoulder once more, trying to be inconspicuous like I was checking out the crowd as I searched for her. She was there, but she wasn’t alone. A man dressed in a brown suit had joined her, his hand falling to her lower back as they went to the bar.

Moment gone.

Was I having the most honest moment of my life? Absolutely not. Instead of leaving after our set like everyone else, I sat at the bar. I didn’t need a drink. I should’ve gone home, taken my sleep medication, and crawled into bed.

But I couldn’t get her out of my head. Obsession wasn’t a pretty color on anyone. I knew that. But I was impulsive at times, and I couldn’t resist her.

Her date had his back to me, and she laughed at something he said. No offense, but I’d know a woman’s fake laugh anywhere. He clearly didn’t.

I sipped at my whiskey for the better part of an hour listening to him talk and talk and fucking talk about his art gallery.

Half the shit he said was bull—I knew how galleries ran.

I’d been featured in many. Yeah, I was multi-creative.

Sculptures were my thing. Whatever this guy was selling her on, it wasn’t honest. I’d peg him as an art handler at most—taking orders and doing what he was told instead of running a whole space on his own.

The guy didn’t appreciate what he had right in front of him. She barely got a word in edgewise before giving up and nodding or laughing her way through whatever he was saying. It pissed me off. Why did I care so much?

That was the morbid question of the hour. I fussed with the black wedding ring on my finger. I hadn’t cared about anyone in a very long time. Hell, I’d given up on the idea of moving on and all that shit.

“Well, this was nice,” she said as she slid off her stool. I scoffed. That was one word for it.

“My hotel room is down the road.”

“I’m sorry, but what part of your long-winded speeches gave you the impression I’d be willing to sleep with you?” she demanded, instantly fired up. I grinned into my drink.

“Come now, sweetheart,” the guy continued, “women like you need to be grateful for the bone you’re being handed.”

“And what bone is that?” she asked. I held my breath. I had a real strong feeling I knew what this dick was about to say.

“Bigger women can’t be picky,” he told her with absolutely no shame. “I’m doing you a favor, sweetheart.”

I sighed and set down my drink. Why’d he have to go and be a dick?

“Hey, buddy.” I tapped his shoulder. When he turned, I punched him hard enough to wipe that arrogant look right off his fucking face. He hit the bar floor. Hard.

“What did you do?” She gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Those intoxicating blue eyes widened as she stared at me in disbelief.

“I’m not sorry,” I said with a shrug. Wasn’t now, never would be.