I don’t take it. I don’t want to, and anyway, it’s only one night. Just one time, and then we’ll never talk about any of this. Not about my secret and not about what’s about to happen between us.
I drag my mouth against hers once before opening up to taste her completely. Tequila sparks on her tongue as it tangles with mine, and her fingers tug on the ends of my hair. My hips roll against her all over again, but this time it’s for real. No more games between friends. We exchange breaths and I swallow her tiny gasps. Even as buzzed as I am, I know we’re getting too public, so I take her hand and pull out my phone, calling us a ride.
“You’re sure?” I ask once we’re outside the bar. “I can always drop you off.”
“Haven’t you always wondered?”
I don’t ask her to clarify. Instead, I hesitate, rapidly sobering up. I mean, hell yeah, I’ve wondered. Not only that, I’m pretty fucking sure we’d be great together. But once we know for sure … once I know for sure …
Don’t think, don’t think.
Eventually I give her a half nod, half shrug.
“What if you and Drake get back togeth—”
She presses her fingertip to my lips. “Fuck him. This ain’t nothing to do with him. Just us. Huck and Lorelai. One night. I…” She trails off, contemplating her next words. “I would like … I want to have this with you. Before I leave.”
“Where are you—” but I don’t finish because I don’t want to know and I’m trying not to think. Not right now. I get one chance and I’m not gonna waste it.
* * *
（THREE YEARS EARLIER）
“That kid deserves everything he’s got coming to him. This industry isn’t for pus—” Drake cuts off at my glare over the top of my phone screen. He huffs and continues with his tirade. “Weaklings,” he amends, as if that’s any better. “If you can’t hack a little criticism and weather the ups and downs of fame…”
He’s still talking, but I’ve stopped listening. If there’s another human alive more hypocritical than Drake Colter … well. Never mind. There isn’t. Lately it’s been his obsessive ranting about the meteoric rise and fall of Clay Coolidge. The small-town kid from Indiana came on the scene with the force of a rifle blast, filling stadiums and winning accolades, including Best New Artist right from under Drake. Ever since, my partner has held the mother of all grudges. When the news broke that Coolidge had to cancel several shows due to a “rumored substance abuse problem,” Drake could hardly contain his glee.
Never mind that the kid is barely twenty.
“Country music will chew you up and spit you out, man,” Drake finishes in a tone I’m sure he thinks sounds sage.
On that front, I agree. This industry is brutal. But it’s not the fault of kids like Clay Coolidge or even socially conscious starlets like Lorelai Jones. It’s because of fuckers like Drake. Guys that soak up fame and fortune and all the privilege life has afforded them and refuse to reach behind them to help the next guy. Instead, they kick them in the teeth and laugh as they fall to the bottom of the canyon.
Without effort, my thumb finds the email icon on my phone, pulling up the message I’d received that morning. My great-uncle Huckleberry Boseman, the very guy my parents named me after, died two months ago. I was on tour at the time and couldn’t make it home to Tennessee for the services. Another thing Drake sucks at. Empathy. He was old, Craig. You know I can’t find a decent replacement on such short notice. Not to mention, this is Daytona. The sickest show of the year. Besides, when was the last time you even talked to the guy?
Two years ago, actually. Two whole years since I’d been home and had been able to swing on my uncle Huck’s porch, drinking Manhattans and talking shit with one of the wisest men I’d ever known.
He left me his fortune. The whole fucking thing. The guy lived on the same thirty acres his entire life, fishing the crick, driving his patched-together John Deere, rocking on his porch, and the entire time he was sitting on a ceramics empire worth millions. You read that right. My uncle with his tiny shack in the middle of the Smokies, complete with his own kiln, produced millions of dollars’ worth of art-museum-quality pottery.
And none of us had the first damn clue. I knew about the pottery. He taught me all he knew, and of course I thought he was the shit, but …
To my grandnephew and namesake, Craig Huckleberry Boseman, I leave the entirety of my estate and all of its holdings. Give ’em hell, Huck.
I’ve been reeling all day. One phone call to the lawyer outside Memphis confirmed it. I was a multimillionaire. Multi, multi. And to be clear, outside of Uncle Huckleberry, I haven’t done too badly for myself, touring with Drake Colter. My expenses are low, since I’m away ten months out of the year and I’ve managed to carefully tuck savings away for my future.
But as of this morning? My future is suddenly within reach.
“Listen, Drake,” I interrupt, with zero fucks left to give, “I quit.”
The silence is deafening as Drake processes my out-of-the-blue resignation. But I’m already getting to my feet, not interested in being in his presence a second longer than I have to.
“The fuck, are you serious?”
I start to gather up my papers, random song lyrics and notations, but at the last minute, offer them to him. “Here. So you’re not in a lurch. They’re mostly half-written, but I’m sure you can manage.”
Which is a lie, he’s never written a damn song in his life, but the deer-in-headlights expression on his face is making me feel weird. Like guilty or … well, just guilty.
But not guilty enough to stay.
* * *
（TWO YEARS EARLIER）
“Fucking a, Colter, are you kidding me right now? Tell me I didn’t just hear what I think I heard on the radio. It’s been two years, and you know damn well I did not hand-deliver you an entire song on purpose. Your ethics are shady as fuck.” I exhale in a huff. “‘Jonesin’’？ Seriously? After the way you…” I bite off the rest of that thought and take a deep breath. “My lawyers will be in touch, you plagiarizing motherfucker.” I chuck my phone across the studio, where it bounces off the sound-insulated wall and lands with a muffled thud on the thick carpet.
Forking my hands through my wavy hair, I growl in frustration before retrieving the device. My next appointment will be here any minute and I need to pull it together. I slip on my glasses and flick on the overhead lights, collecting discarded water bottles and various clutter left behind from the folk trio who stayed way past their allotted time late yesterday. They’d finally hit their stride near midnight, creatively speaking, and I wasn’t about to cut them off as the magic was hitting. Even if it means I’ll need an IV of espresso to get me through this morning’s session with a former pop princess looking to rebrand herself as a country starlet.
Besides, late nights and early mornings in my studio aren’t the problem. There’s no place I’d rather be. After cashing in my inheritance from Uncle Huckleberry, I found this decrepit factory building a few blocks off downtown Nashville for a steal and had it renovated into a state-of-the-art recording studio. I named it On the Floor Records. It’s my fucking happy place.