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Present day—The Dickxie Mansion, Nashville
Ipark my Harley Sportster in the garage, place my helmet on the shelf, and decide that I hate my dad. Dumping my leather jacket on the coat rack, I head into the laundry room to change into a clean shirt. I’m sweating like crazy, the beginning of summer in Nashville can be relentless. I pull my vintage Foreigner shirt over my head, and walk into the living room. I can’t believe he booked Outlaw for studio time, despite knowing how I felt about Navarone.
I flip on all the lights in the house and, after scanning the fridge, I heat up some leftover pizza. It’s my brother’s turn to do the shopping and of course, he forgot.
Turning on the TV, I choke on my water because what do you know, there’s the Rolling Stone centerfold strutting his stuff on the red carpet. Figures, the man loves to party, and the CMT Awards are a one way ticket to a booze fueled sleepless night.
It took me two hours to get to my house. Dad is probably already sitting in the audience with Axl and my cousins—Mason, Noah, and Jimmy.
The camera turns to Navarone, and I almost spill my drink. He’s wearing a fit-to-perfection dark suit and a white dress shirt straining in the best places. He’s like a Nashville version of James Bond.
I have to admit, the way he cut his hair and is rocking his new style of slicked-back-and-shaved-at-the-sides is hot as hell. His dark stubble is a good addition to the whole outlaw image he has going on. Every now and then, a stray lock falls in front of his eyes, and I imagine the female interviewer on the red carpet has trouble not fainting when she looks at him.
“I’m over it!” I yell, turning the TV off before scrolling through the messages on my phone. My ears ring from working in the studio all day, I actually like living with four guys, because it’s never quiet. Silence means too much time to think, and that always leads to obsessing about Navarone fucking West.
“Shit I’m weak,” I mutter, turning the television back on just in time for the host to announce Outlaw is set to perform a song honoring Jesse’s band later in the evening.
I hear a rap on the front door, and I slip my phone in my back pocket.
“Can you get the keys, dude?” Evan’s deep voice is muffled.
“I’m not touching your ass,” Gunner barks out.
“Dang, guys. I need a fucking drink after being stuck in traffic for an hour, so open it up,” Austin roars, rattling the door.
“Let me get them,” Frankie says, exasperated. I hear the smile in his voice; the man always makes me laugh.
“It’s open,” I yell, as my best friends pile in.
“It’s ya boys, babe,” Frankie drawls, and I can’t help but giggle. He gives me a look. “Seriously, why didn’t you holler before I went dumpster diving in Evan’s pants?” Smirking, Frankie throws the keys in the bowl next to the entrance, pushing Evan in front of him who is shaking his head in disapproval.
I haven’t seen my best friends in two weeks, and I scream with delight. “I missed you guys.”
Evan directs his sweet grin at me. “Allie, we have food, booze, and booze: the holy trinity,” he says, his arms filled with liquor bottles.
“Please make it stop,” Gunner whines, placing his hands over his ears while I squeal again.
Austin pushes him into the living room. “Don’t be a dick.”
I flip Gunner the bird and he shakes his head in response. “That’s how you say hello to me after two weeks of leaving us to fend for ourselves? We were starving. You do get that, Alice? We were dying,” he says in a serious voice, before getting into a push-and-shove fight with Austin because thirty-something guys never grow up.
“Stop touching me,” Gunner roars.
“Stop touching me.” Austin laughs, mimicking his voice and forcing Gunner out to the porch again.
I sprint into the kitchen to see what the guys brought with them. Evan wasn’t kidding; the marble kitchen island is filled with stuff. I put my arms around his waist, or try to. The six-foot-five lumberjack look-alike, beard and all, hugs me back.
“Hey, you got me my favorite drink,” I say, as he pushes the big glass jar filled with clear moonshine toward me. The name always makes me smile: ‘Ain’t My Fault.’
“Nice to have you home, honey, and of course we bought your favorite,” he says in his deep Mississippi drawl.
“How was work tonight?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Had to throw out a couple drunks at the club. Man, I thought Afghanistan was rough,” he says, scratching his buzz-cut.
Austin brushes a hand through his bleached spikey blond hair and gives me a kiss on my forehead. I spot the new piercings in his brow. He looks cuter with them in than without. Who would have thought?
“Long time no see, Al.” He is also covered in tattoos from head to toe.
