Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Read online

  Olivia grins as she watches him go, whispering out of the side of her mouth, “Ilene’s in a great mood tonight, mouth running and ass swinging to the radio she’s got back there. She’ll have Hank laughing and singing some old Keith Whitley in no time.”

  I chuckle, slicing away at my fifteenth lemon. “You sure we’ll need all these? I’ve got a bin full, another in the fridge, but Unc said to do one more too.”

  “Tonight? You’ll be lucky if you don’t run out. It’s show night.” Olivia fans herself dramatically with a paper napkin, but at my confused look, she straightens. “You don’t know, do you? Oh, shit, girl. We’re gonna show you how it goes down in the country tonight! Bobby Tannen is taking that stage, singing his growly little heart out and lighting panties on fire across the whole county.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. Unc said that tonight was one of the live music nights, but Olivia makes it sound like there’s a celebrity coming. “Even yours?” I joke.

  She nods, ponytail bobbing. “Hell, yeah! Me and my girl have a deal—if that man so much as crooks a finger at either of us, we’ll follow him like the Pied Piper of Great Falls . . . doo-doo-doo-doo-doo.” She mimics some sort of flute with a fork held sideways at her mouth.

  I can’t help but laugh at her outrageousness.

  “That man is everyone’s free pass, eighteen to eighty, not that it matters a bit. He don’t give anyone a lick of attention, and not for their lack of trying, neither.” Her eyes go big and round, her mouth following a second later. “Ooh, or maybe he just hasn’t been interested in the local fare and what he needs is some fresh meat. Some city girl to sweep him off his feet.”

  She points at me with both index fingers, proud of what she obviously thinks is a brilliant idea. It’s not, at all.

  “Oh, no, slow that crazy runaway train down right now. I’m not here looking for some country boy, and I’m not exactly what panty-fire-starting guys want anyway. I want to work and take pictures and that’s it.”

  She believes me because her face falls. “What the hell you talking about? You’re adorable. Bobby Tannen would be lucky if you looked his way.” I think her vision of me sashaying up to this cowboy-lebrity was going to be her entertainment for the night, but I have never sashayed a day in my life.

  “Adorable, just what every woman wants to be,” I say sarcastically, planting my hands under my chin and batting my lashes angelically. “That’s right up there with funny and nice. All one-way tickets to the friend zone.”

  Olivia pokes my arm with her fork, having not wrapped a single set of silverware. “Shut up. Some of us are hot, some of us are adorable, and some of us are plain Janes, but it’s what you do with it that matters. Everyone’s got someone out there. Just gotta find them.”

  “Why, Olivia, I do believe you’re a romantic at heart!” I exclaim in my best Pride and Prejudice accent.

  She holds up that same fork threateningly, though she’s trying not to laugh. “Don’t you tell a soul, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  We both dissolve into giggles right as Unc walks back in from the kitchen, a smile on his face. He sees us and makes a right-hand turn, muttering about checking the bathrooms, which only makes us laugh harder.

  Hours later, much to my astonishment, I’m out of lemons—three whole bins of them—but the sweet tea orders keep coming, right alongside the beers and cocktails. Unc is stationed at the beer taps again and I’m running back and forth, up and down the bar, trying to keep up. As it turns out, he was right—two-dollar draft Thursday has nothing on live music night.

  The pool tables are stacked, every seat has a butt, and the dance floor is full of people who are swaying more than two-stepping because there’s simply no room to move around the space.

  And the infamous Bobby Tannen hasn’t even taken the stage yet.

  Chapter 3

  Bobby

  “Thanks for coming out tonight. I’m Bobby Tannen.”

  That’s the extent of my welcome speech because nobody wants to hear me talk, anyway. They’re here to listen to me sing, and I’m here to feed the monster inside me that needs this outlet.

  Some folks have told me my voice is a gift from God, and maybe that’s true, but most days, it feels like slicing open my chest on stage and inviting every Tom, Dick, and Harry into my thoughts and emotions. It’s painful to do but worse on my own well-being if I don’t. Songwriting and singing are my sanity.

  Maybe that’s true for the crowd too? Maybe the music gives people who can’t put their feelings into words a way to say what they can’t? I’d like to think so.

  Unconsciously, my fingers work the frets of my guitar. Betty is both an extension of me and my best friend. The mahogany is warm beneath my touch, the strings dig into the calluses I’ve earned with hours of play, and the resonant twang is the soundtrack of my life.

  I start my set list for the night, opening slow and strong with Strawberry Wine, tweaked slightly so it doesn’t sound like I’m losing my virginity to some dude in the backseat of his car. The crowd sways and sings along with the 90s classic, and I’m home.

  I never would’ve thought I’d say that about being on stage. Once upon a time, I was shy and uncertain to the point of not telling my family when I was performing. I didn’t want them to see me. I needed a nameless, faceless, anonymous crowd that I could walk away from without any real care whether they liked the show . . . or me. But a few years ago, that changed.

  Dad died.

  Everything changed then. We lost the farm, literally. We sold it to the Bennetts, our neighbors, which should have been an utter and complete clusterfuck because we’d had a feud going on for years. As it turns out, that was Dad’s doing more than anything, and with him in the ground and not spewing his bullshit, we realized that the Bennetts are good people. So good that they kept me, my brothers, and sister on as workers when they bought our land, and over the last year, we’ve created a sort of adoptive, one big happy family situation with them and us. It’s weird as fuck but better than I ever thought it would be.

  It’s good enough that the whole pack of them often comes hear me perform now, taking up a whole corner of Hank’s, being obnoxious with their hooting and hollering for more and generally giving me shit for being a soft-hearted pussy.

  I love those fuckers, even if I don’t tell them. They know, same as I know they love me, or else they wouldn’t take the time to piss me off.

  But they couldn’t come this evening, leaving me solo for tonight’s show.

  After a couple of cover songs, I play a little shuffle riff and talk into the microphone.

  “I was hoping you’d let me play a few of my own songs tonight too. Ones I’ve been working on, tweaking a little here and there. Y’all okay with being my guinea pigs and letting me know what you think?”

  The crowd cheers back, and I hear a female voice call out, “I’ll be your guinea pig, Bobby!”

  I’m not exactly sure what the hell that means, but I think she intends for it to be sexy. I smirk, my head tilted under the straw cowboy hat that keeps the spotlight out of my eyes. “That’s a mighty fine offer, ma’am. Maybe just the music for now.” I add a wink to soften the rejection. It’s not my first rodeo putting someone off because I’m not here for that.

  A sad ‘awww’ works its way through the women and I can’t help but chuckle. These people will damn near cross the street to get away from my brothers, Brody and Brutal, but they think because I play guitar and sing a little that I’m not as much of an asshole as they are. They’re wrong. I’m probably worse than my brothers because where they let their asshole-ism out, I bury mine deep inside and let it out in a different form.

  In music.

  I sing one of my originals that the locals know.

  Whatever you want,

  Whatever you need,

  I’ll get it for you,

  You can count on me.

  I see a guy singing along with me, his mouth close to his woman’s ear as they rock
together. That’s my favorite, when a song can resonate with people for a multitude of reasons. To that couple, it’s about them, him making a promise to her. To me, it’s about Mom and my pledge to take care of her when she was sick. This song took away her pain for a little bit, and that was enough for me, but the smile on the woman in the audience means a lot too.

  I play another few songs, then it’s time to ramp up the crowd. “Olivia?” I scan until I see her hand sticking up, a thumbs-up shooting my way because she knows the routine and is grabbing me a drink already. “Everyone, get a drink and raise it up high.”

  I give Olivia and Hank a chance to refill everyone’s glasses and serve up another round, telling a story to fill the time.

  “There are two true testaments of a song. One, it hits something deep inside and makes the audience relate with exactly what the singer is feeling. It’s a powerful connection.” I play a few chords, thinking of the songs that have done that for me over the years, then a cocky smirk stretches my lips. “Two, it’s a damn good song that no matter if it’s the first time you’ve heard it or the hundredth time, it instantly makes you smile. A few of you probably remember when this song was released, but I wasn’t even born then . . .”

  I pause because Hank always gives me shit at this point. He likes me too, despite his protests to the contrary. At least, I’m reasonably sure he likes me and not just the positive impact I have on his bottom line on live music nights.

  “Damn young’uns wouldn’t know good music if it smacked you upside the head!” Hank’s rough voice sounds out across the room.

  The crowd chuckles at his insult, looking toward the bar at the back of the room and then to the stage. I shrug, not offended in the least since this is our usual schtick. I hold up the glass of Jack Daniel’s Olivia delivered to the stage, waiting for everyone to hold up their various drinks. I see beer bottles, wine glasses, sweet tea, and mixed drinks appear over their heads. “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking. If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal your beloved’s heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me.” I swallow a sip of the whiskey, and everyone follows suit.

  “Let’s see if this one qualifies as good music for our host, Hank.” I roll into an acoustic version of Friends in Low Places, the entire room filled with voices singing off-key—the audience, not me. The rowdy song merges us into one, all equal for the moment as strangers toast and wrap their arms around each other like long-lost buddies.

  “Great job, everyone. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.” I find Olivia’s ponytail working back and forth across the room and point her way.

  Answering back, she calls out, “And your bartenders!”

  Bartenders? There’s only one, Hank. He’s the only one allowed behind the stretch of shiny wood that’s seen beers, cheers, and barfights its whole existence. Unless the old man finally hired someone to help?

  If so, it’d be about time. He does almost everything around here as a one-man show. I try to help when I’m here, hauling heavy boxes from the stockroom to behind the bar, but he’s a stubborn old coot who likes to refuse any assistance out of misplaced pride.

  I scan the room, trying to catch sight of who else is working behind the bar. I’m protective of Hank, even if I would never dare tell him so. He’d beat the shit out of me for thinking he can’t protect himself. I’ve seen him use the Louisville Slugger he keeps beneath the bar, and he can pack a wallop of a swing. Still, he’s getting up there in years, and I’ve noticed it’s been a little easier to talk him into letting me do a bit of the heavy lifting around here. I want to be certain that whoever he’s hired is worthy of Hank’s bar top.

  It takes me a few seconds, but finally, the mass of people moves enough that I can see. And my heart fucking stutters in my chest before going dead still.

  There’s a woman with light blonde hair, short with side-swept bangs, and round black glasses behind the bar. She’s got on a black tank top, a hint of cleavage peeking out at the neckline. She’s talking to a regular, Richard, as she sets a fresh beer in front of him, her pixie nose crinkling as she flashes him a soft smile. She never stops moving, efficiently setting drinks up and down the bar, to Olivia and to customers, never missing a beat.

  Unlike me.

  I’ve been playing the opening chords to another original and missed my own entry. I blink, forcing my attention back to my guitar, play the start again, and sing.

  But my attention never leaves the mystery woman.

  I need to know her name.

  I need to know who she is.

  I need to know what the fuck she’s doing behind Hank’s bar.

  I need to know where she’s been my whole life.

  Okay, that might be dramatic, but there’s something about that sweet smile and the way she brushes her bangs back with delicate hands that makes me want to cut the set short and walk across the room to her. And I never do that. Hell, I’ve never even thought about doing that.

  Until right now.

  Thought I could see, but never saw a thing until I laid my eyes on you. Then the world exploded into view.

  Usually, when I finish a set, I head to the back for a while to cool off. The lights are hot, making me a bit sweaty, and the crowd still feels entitled to a piece of me. Tonight, I can’t handle the delay and won’t risk that she might slip out the door. I wrap up my set, put Betty into her case, safe and sound behind the burlap stage curtain, and hop directly off the stage.

  A few people surge forward as if we’re friends, but I bark out, “Move.” They recoil, somehow surprised that I’m not eager to high-five and fist bump them. But I’ve got more important shit to do.

  As I’m coming up to the bar, I overhear Olivia, who’s not trying to be quiet at all. In fact, she’s speaking . . . loudly.

  “Ooh, look out, girl. He’s on his way over. Remember, he’s everyone’s free pass.” She’s talking about me. Not to be arrogant, but I’ve heard that from women before. Honestly, I find it to be grossly disrespectful to their relationship with their partner, but that’s on them, not me. I’m not interested in shit like that.

  What I am interested in is her.

  She’s laughing at Olivia’s comments, and it’s a bright, bubbly sound. I have a twinge of jealousy that I wasn’t the one to make her laugh. Not that I’m a funny, laughs-a-minute sort anyway, but I want to capture that sound and listen to it late at night when the dark feels a little too endless and the bed a little too empty.

  So I stick my hand out. “I’m Bobby Tannen.”

  She wipes her hand on the towel stuck through her belt loop and shakes my hand. I feel a shock of electricity shoot up my arm the instant I touch her, but she seems more confused by my direct attention than anything.

  “Willow Parker, the new bartender. You seem rather popular.”

  An insult or a compliment? I’m not sure.

  I shrug, not sure what to say. Olivia is looking between us like the ping pong match of the century has just started. I raise one brow expectantly, silently telling her to get lost. Olivia taps her tray against the bar. “Oops! Let me check on table thirteen really quick. I’ll be back for those drinks, Willow.” She scoots off but must throw a glance back because Willow glares off to my left. I’m instantly hungry to have her eyes back on me.

  Willow sets a large glass of ice water on the bar in front of me, which I drink gratefully. “Thanks.” I want to ask about a hundred questions at once, but what comes out is, “How in the hell did you get Hank to let you behind his bar?” My voice is deep and rough, nothing I can do about that, but the growl makes it sound accusatory. Maybe unconsciously, I mean for it to be because curiosity about her sudden appearance is eating me up inside.

  She flinches, dark lashes fluttering a little too fast behind those owl-like lenses.

  What the hell, man? Fix it.

  I flash the smile that’s gotten me out of trouble for most of my life and am rewarded wit
h a hesitant, slow-motion version of one of her soft smiles.

  “Right place, right time, I guess,” she answers without giving anything away.

  A voice calls out ‘bartender’, and she moves away without another word but gives me the first view of her lower half. She’s wearing denim shorts that sit low on her hips, exposing a small sliver of her midriff I’d like to trace with my tongue. Her legs are shapely and tan, ending in black and white Nikes that have seen better days.

  I’m lost in every curve, tracing the line of the nape of her neck with my eyes, and flexing my fingers with the urge to reach out and drag her back to me. I want more of her—her words, her smiles—and maybe I can get one of those laughs of my very own.

  Richard slides over next to me, lids half-lowered, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tipsy or if he’s checking me out. “What’re your intentions with our Willow?”

  “Our Willow?” I snap. For someone I’ve never seen before, she seems to have crawled under everyone’s skin pretty damn fast—mine, Olivia’s, Richard’s, and Hank’s. My Spidey senses start tingling in warning. Or maybe it’s jealousy.

  His lips quirk in amusement and he drawls out, “That’s what I thought. You wanna know what I know?”

  I blink slowly, not sure I like where this conversation is going. I mean, yeah, of course I want to know, but there’s a part of me that wants her to tell me. But given how she walked off without a care, maybe a little intel would do me good.

  I tell myself that I’m looking out for Hank, because maybe he’s been taken in by her sweet, innocent looks too. Deep down, I know it’s for my own personal satisfaction. Nobody else needs to know that, though, so I shrug casually, feigning indifference.

  “All right, I’ll bite. Whatcha got?”

  Richard takes a long, leisurely sip of his beer, delighting in the fact that I’m on his hook. Desperately twisting and turning in anticipation on it, in fact. “Willow Parker, Hank’s niece, city girl. Showed up a couple of weeks ago as a surprise. Said she needed, and I quote, ‘a change.’ She’s a photographer of some sort, always snapping away on her phone, though I saw her with one of them big, fancy digital ones once. Thing was nearly as big as she is. And she’s a damn good bartender.” He winks as if he told me all her deep, dark secrets. “Be good to her or Hank’ll have your hide, and I’ll be backing him up.” He moves back to his own barstool several seats away.