Page 35 of Until Tomorrow (Love Doesn’t Cure All: The Ashwood Duet #1)

Rhett

There was tempting fate and then there was being just plain fucking stupid.

I teetered that line like I worked for the goddamn circus and walked the tightrope.

The moment she walked in, I knew. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, but I did.

She took a seat at the back of the bar, picking a booth out of the way.

With two bands playing, nights like these often meant bigger crowds.

Add in specialty drinks and a theme night and things were fucking nuts.

It gave me something to focus on other than how those plump lips of hers moved with every song I sang.

The intense energy in the small bar thrummed in my veins.

Big smiles, bad jokes, loud laughs. I was fucking high on it all.

I loved nights like this, and even her presence couldn’t take that from me.

It wasn’t until our set was over that the reality of it all set in. I wanted to talk to her—to entertain whatever stalkerish urge had brought her to my bar all over again—but I couldn’t. She was someone’s wife. Even if she wanted to make bad choices, I wouldn’t be the one she made them with.

“Your girlfriend is here.” Sam tossed an arm around my shoulder, laughing loudly.

I’d been just stupid enough to tell him about what happened—the dick she’d been on a date with, me getting arrested, her husband getting the charges dropped.

It was a fucking blast. “You think her husband is here too?”

“Go fuck yourself,” I grumbled.

“ You think she’s here to collect her debt?” He smirked as he made an innuendo about the bail money I inevitably owed them. Fuck, I should talk to her and square away paying her back. I hated owing money to anyone. “She’ll make you work it off.”

I shoved him off as he winked.

“Go get yourself a drink, you asshole,” I said. When he was gone, I sighed and straightened my shirt. I didn’t know why I bothered. She was all strappy heels and dripping diamonds while I was in dirty work boots and old jeans. I couldn’t impress her if I fucking tried.

Sam was right, though. She was probably here for nothing more than the money her unfortunate husband forked over to bail me out and keep that loser from pressing charges. How the hell had she explained everything to her husband anyway?

That was the thought that kept me occupied as I made my way through the bar to her corner. It was better than focusing on that black dress of hers and the way it put her full tits on display. Yeah, I was going to hell.

“If you’re here to collect what I owe you, I need some time to put it together,” I said the minute I was within earshot. “That, and I need to know what the hell I owe you.”

“I don’t want your money. I want to talk to you,” she replied. “That’s all you owe me.”

What the fuck?

“I don’t think either of us has a thing to say to one another that wasn’t already said.” Okay, maybe I was being a dick, but this woman was dangerous. For me. All my stupidity came out when I was around her.

“No, you did all the talking,” she corrected. “You said what you needed to say and left. Now, I want to say my piece.”

That look she gave me told me I wasn’t getting out of it. This woman wasn’t used to hearing the word no. Ever. I could handle one conversation without doing something stupid, right?

“All right, spark plug,” I dropped into the seat across from her, “you’ve got ten minutes, and then I’m done.”

“I’ll take however many minutes I want, and I don’t accept your limitations,” she countered. Fuck, I loved how feisty she was.

“We’ll see. What did you want to say?”

“You punched a man who you believed unfairly insulted me, and then, you turned around and did exactly the same thing,” she said. I frowned.

“I did no such thing.”

“ So, you weren’t insinuating that I’m a homewrecker who cheats on my husband, and you don’t believe he deserves better?” God, the point-blank thing was refreshing. I only made a sound. “For your information, Mr. Carson—”

“Rhett,” I interrupted. “No one fucking calls me Mr. Carson.”

That would’ve been a great time to ask for her name, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted that piece of information. It’d make this whole exchange more personal.

“My husband and I are polyamorous,” she explained. Ah, fuck. “Which means I date who I want, and he dates who he wants. He knew exactly where I was and who I was with.”

Well, that certainly changed things. I clicked the barbell in my tongue against my teeth as I tried to think of the best way to respond. Admittedly, she was giving me a hell of a lot more information than I needed. Or wanted.

I knew enough to understand the concept of a polyamorous relationship. I’d never been in one personally, but I’d never dated anyone other than my wife.

“Point taken. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology.”

“Then what do you want?” I demanded, and she faltered.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. Fuck, I was under her skin just as much as she was under mine. “I just didn’t like your assumptions about me.”

“Right.” I nodded slowly. Where did we go from here? My best course of action was to leave. She’d said her piece, right? And I’d done my part by listening.

But damn it. I’d never been good at doing what I should’ve done.

“Does your wife come to all your music events?” she asked. The question knocked the wind out of my sails. Most women ignored the ring until it was an afterthought. They were oddly intimidated by the memory of a woman they never knew.

“No,” I said, my voice quiet enough that I wasn’t sure she could even hear me. I fussed with my ring. “She died when we were twenty-one.”

And then I waited for the backlash. I didn’t talk about my wife. That opinionated conversation about what I should be doing with myself at this point was one I avoided. I’d heard enough of it. Everyone always had an opi nion on how grief should be handled, and they were real quick to vocalize it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know, but any loss is devastating.” She spoke the words like someone who knew. “And I’m not taking ownership… I’m just sorry you have to go through it.”

Have to, not had to. The distinction was one I noted very quickly. I wanted to ask how she understood, but I also wanted to leave this conversation as far behind us as I could.

“How’d you know I was playing tonight?” That was a safe question to ask.

“I called the bar to find out your band’s name, then found your band’s social media and event schedule online,” she replied. “I called the bar to double-check if you were coming in tonight, considering you were arrested. I wasn’t sure if you were taking time off.”

“That’s a little bit stalkerish, spark plug,” I told her, but that didn’t stop me from grinning. Her chin lifted slightly as if it was an accusation.

“I knew what I wanted, so I made it happen.” Nothing about that sentence fucking surprised me. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You know,” I leaned toward her, gesturing between us, “if roles were reversed, I could get arrested for that shit.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m prettier than you are.”

“ Ouch. ” I feigned my offense. We both knew it was a fucking fact. On her worst day—if such a thing existed—she would always have me beat in that department. She shrugged, flashing me that drop-dead smile of hers.

“Well, I think that was ten minutes,” she said.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t looking at the time.” Maybe it was fucking cheesy, but I didn’t care. There wasn’t a future here—that much I knew—but I could enjoy her company for another ten minutes.