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“Like a shark tank with chum in the water.” She smiled when Gavin laughed.
“I noticed Cash rushing in like his ass was on fire. He’s usually late, but not this late. Wonder what the holdup was?”
She knew, but she wasn’t saying.
“He’s never been much for rehearsal. Likes to be spontaneous.”
“So I’ve gathered,” she said under her breath.
Gavin gestured to a female bartender wearing a leather vest, an exposed red bra beneath it. A streak of red decorated her blond hair. “Christy, can you shake up something special for Presley while I fetch her a backstage pass? She’s a friend of the family so put whatever she wants on my tab.”
“Sure thing, hon.” Christy’s eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting she was a touch older than her outfit suggested. “How about a Lightning Bolt, sweetheart? It’s Cash Sutherland’s signature drink.”
“Named after his famous song, ‘Lightning,’ I presume.”
“The one and only. The girls go wild for that song—and the drink.”
Just what she needed. But, what the hell. “Sure. Why not?”
Turned out the Cash Sutherland’s signature drink was blue and fruity...and served in a martini glass with a cherry in the bottom. Which had her musing about her own intact virginity back when she’d dated him, and the likely color of his balls as they took things far, but never went all the way.
Her stomach rolled, regret and relief switching places, but she thanked Christy for the drink anyway.
Boots hooked on the rungs of a stool backstage, Cash concentrated on tuning his guitar while the band readied their instruments. He’d assumed tonight’s set would be as rote as they came, given they’d performed it at least once in every state in the country, and in several countries outside the United States. Then again, after what’d happened in the service elevator, anything being “rote” tonight was a big assumption.
He hummed as he plucked the strings, his mind not on his music but on every agonizing, skin-tightening, ball-seizing second of kissing Presley in that elevator. Her truncated breaths, the feel of her small hands on his arms as she sealed her body to his. The incredibly confident way her mouth moved beneath his, slanting when he would have backed off, diving deeper when he should have backed off.
They’d been kids when they’d dated—her nineteen-going-on-twenty to his should’ve-known-better twenty-three. But she wasn’t nineteen-going-on-twenty any longer. She was thirty to his thirty-three, and his sweet Presley had bloomed. Sneaking into that elevator and implying she was here to save his career was not the Presley he remembered.
Cash would strangle his younger brother for keeping this from him.
“Set list, boss.” Mikey, his bassist, handed over a sheet of paper.
Cash reviewed it, nodded and handed it back. Mikey taped it to the floor next to the microphone stand and ambled off to finish setting up.
Cash didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to perform “Lightning” knowing Presley was out there watching—and preparing to report on—his every move. Especially after the kiss that had stopped the world. And the elevator.
He was used to the wolves coming for him in the form of paparazzi and press, but the last person he’d expected to take advantage of his fame was her. She had shown up a few years back to interview his family, without so much as an email to alert him. Not that he blamed her for not contacting him. Not after how things ended between them...how he’d ended things.
He’d been a senior at the time, itching to finish school or drop out entirely. He didn’t care, so long as college was over. If it hadn’t been for a football scholarship, he never would have gone to Florida. Never would have met Presley Cole. At the moment, he couldn’t decide if that would have been better.
Anyway, he’d broken his finger on the field, an injury that had since healed but still caused him pain after a long show or hours of practice. He hadn’t been able to play football immediately following, which was a huge relief, but he also hadn’t been able to hold a pen or play guitar, and that had been the ultimate deal breaker.
His dad, Travis, had high hopes for Cash to play for the NFL. Cash hadn’t wanted to live out his father’s dream. He’d had his own dream. The decision to leave Florida State was easy. Leaving his budding relationship with Presley was not.
The break from football gave him a lot of perspective. He saw how he’d influenced Presley and not in a positive way. More than once, she’d broken curfew while they’d dated. She’d gone to parties she had no business being at, and had skipped hanging with her friends to watch him play ball.
She hadn’t been the only one affected negatively by their relationship. He’d done his share of skipping class, sleeping in after spending the night with her in his arms. He’d respected her wishes not go all the way sexually during their heavy make-out sessions, but wanting her had become a type of torture the longer they were together.
She’d probably never know how much it’d gutted him to give her the “it’s not you it’s me” breakup speech. To watch her eyes fill with tears and then walk away like he didn’t care. He had cared. Way too much.
After he’d decided to stop chasing his father’s dream and chase his own for a change, Cash knew what coming home to Tennessee meant. It meant dedicating all his time to succeeding, and that hadn’t left any time for Presley.
When he broke up with her, he’d reminded her that she had big dreams of her own. To be a writer, to travel. He knew she’d turned down an internship in NYC to stay close to him. The last thing he wanted was for her not to follow her own dreams in exchange for being with him. But in reality, he hadn’t been as magnanimous as he’d made himself out to be. He’d been selfish, and she deserved better. Then and now.
Sad as it was, their brief relationship, honest and loving at the start, heartbreaking and lonely at the end, made for great country music fodder.
Too bad the song he’d written to help him get over her only seemed to reopen the wound every time he sang it.
“Ten minutes,” Mikey called out.
Cash nodded that he was ready. If there was one thing he could do it was compartmentalize. And as far as pushing thoughts of Presley into the past went, well, he’d had a hell of a lot of practice.
