Smoke and Lyrics Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2017 by Holly Hall

  [email protected]

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  Cover design by Kat Savage: www.thekatsavage.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Stay Connected

  Books by Holly Hall

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my reader group, the Smokin’ Squad. Without you, this book might not have existed. Without you, Jenson might have never had the chance to redeem himself.

  Chapter 1

  Jenson

  I tug the cap farther down on my head, hunching over the bar top and two fingers of my most favorite vice: whiskey. Maker’s, to be exact. The amber liquid gleaming in the neon lights of the bar looks almost warm. It certainly has its arms wrapped around me more often than not. But the truth is, it’s the coldest thing there is. It blurs rationality and the hard line between right and wrong.

  Oh yeah, and it fucking decimates relationships.

  My realization is alarmingly slow to settle that I’m doing it again—deflecting blame. The liquor didn’t breathe inadequate words at my ex-wife, words that were meant to soothe, to temper, but really just fueled the flames of her hatred for our marriage. The bottle didn’t force her to leave. I did. I did those things. And until I accept responsibility, there’s no hope for me. My therapist in rehab told me that. Not in so many words, but being a songwriter and musician, I’m pretty good at reading between the lines.

  I’ve drunk so much I’m surprised I’m not pickled yet. But I can’t stay away. Being out here—walking among the living—keeps me connected to the world I’m afraid to lose. The one I love and hate. I am not made for the greed and narcissism of the industry, yet I hold onto my career with desperate fingers even as it slices deep. Nothing sticks in my world; not good habits, not love.

  I took as many precautions as one could when they’re a platinum-album recording artist at a bar near Broadway, one of the busiest streets in Nashville. My prolonged social media hiatus means everyone thinks I’m as long-haired and bare-faced as always, and my sleeves cover most of my trademark tattoos. Maybe Tripp’s wasn’t the smartest of choices for my Thursday-night binger, I’ll admit, but I’m sick of hiding. I’m tired of camouflaging who I am for the sake of others. I haven’t completely committed to waving my career good bye as it flushes down the shitter, but I’d better get used to the idea—that’s what’s going to happen if anyone in this bar happens to recognize my face in the sea of bleary strangers.

  Even my own bandmates think I’m plotting my comeback. I’m supposed to be writing music right now, but what am I doing? Pouring gasoline on all the bridges I’m about to burn.

  Though I want to flip two middle fingers to it all, I can’t stop my gaze from flitting around the room. If I’m being documented by other bar-goers guzzling whiskey while I’m supposed to be getting my life on track, I at least want the heads up so I can prepare an epic, not at all meaningful apology speech for the label execs. But nobody gives me a second glance. As of now, the haircut is working. It’s the one everyone and their dad is rocking these days—short on the sides and long on top—and I’ve allowed my stubble to reach its full potential. Yeah, a beard, as if I could get more cliché.

  Counting it as good luck that no one’s onto me, I go to turn around and snag Tripp for another whiskey, when something by the entrance makes me pause. Or rather, someone. The neon plays off strands of dark hair, pulled up on top of her head in something my ex-wife would refer to as a topknot, though it looks more like a nest you could lose a bunch of shit in if you weren’t careful. I peg her as someone in the hospitality industry based on the usual get-up—little T-shirt with a mass-produced logo emblazoned on the front, shorts, a slice of flat stomach showing between the two, and non-slip shoes. But it’s not her general attractiveness holding my attention, it’s the preoccupied look in her eyes.

  She’s shooting worried glances out the door as if she’s watching for someone, but she flattens against the wall after each look. Like she’s expectant, but at the same time doesn’t want to be seen. The group of twenty-somethings huddled around a table near the dartboards keeps looking her way, eating her up with their eyes and talking loudly, puffing their chests like they’re animals trying to attract a mate. If they haven’t learned by now that subtlety is the key to winning the hearts of girls way out of their league, chances are they never will.

  Redirecting my attention, I raise a couple fingers to signal to Tripp for another. Not your problem, Jenson. He slides a glass my way, accompanied by a look of warning. I ignore him and take a long pull, relishing the warmth as it reaches its fingers down my throat. I remember when whiskey used to burn. But you can’t fight fire with fire, and I burn everything I touch.

  I feel her before I see her, hearing the whoosh of her breath as she plops down two barstools over. I look in her direction and immediately regret it. I study the bottles up on the shelves instead, though their labels are ones I memorized long ago.

  I think I hear her mutter “Who pissed in your Cheerios?” but I can’t be sure. I don’t chance another look. Her wide gray eyes told me a thousand things in a fraction of a second, much more than words ever could. I’ve seen that look before—in Raven’s eyes six months after our divorce. The look of someone who’s open, feeling. Things Raven had hardly been during the five years we were together.

  I take another swig of Maker’s to temper the memories, but my recollection of
Raven is so flavored with liquor I almost feel her here, feel her disappointment. I can see the girl in my periphery, but she pays no more attention to me. It seems her focus is torn between the front door and the one leading to the kitchen, behind the bar. It’s unsettling, the way it dances uneasily as a wild horse’s.

  “Looking for someone?” I can’t keep the words from coming out. It doesn’t look like she’s drinking or expecting anyone. She probably came off her shift somewhere, so I’m sure the last thing she wants to do is hang out in some bar, marinating in the same shit she’s had to deal with all day. Besides, this place is a sausage party.

  I allow another sidelong glance. Just one, and when her distracted, stormy eyes finally fix on me, she doesn’t react. There’s no glimmer of recognition, not even a flinch of the pitying looks that have become normal as of late. Her head swivels back to the door, eyes alert.

  “Um,” she finally says, facing forward again, craning her neck to see through the porthole window in the door to the kitchen. “No. Just, uh, wondering if it’s going to rain.”

  The comment is so unexpected that I let out a burst of a chuckle, fully looking at her before it registers that she could be the one who recognizes me, who puts the final nail in the coffin of my sullied image and my limping career. “You melt in the rain or something?”

  Worrying her lip, she drums her chewed nails on the counter. If it weren’t for those gunmetal-gray eyes, I’d be distracted by the colorful stack of bracelets on her arms—the hand-woven friendship type. “No. I walk to work, and I didn’t bring an umbrella today.”

  I’m not even sure if it’s going to rain. When I walked in earlier, the air was thick, the clouds swollen and dark, but as far as I know the pavement’s dry as dust. “So why don’t you call a cab?”

  Her gaze nearly pins me to the wall. “I don’t walk to work every day just to turn around and blow my tips on cab fare.”

  “Which one do you work at?” Her eyes tighten and I tilt my head back toward the street. “Which bar?”

  “Not a bar, a record store. Rhythm and Beans.”

  I know of it. Who doesn’t? It’s a record shop-café combination across the street that caters to tourists with their overpriced T-shirts and hats and key chains.

  “Ah.”

  “What?” she snaps, catching my distaste.

  I shrug languidly, finish off my glass. Consider ordering another. “Just not my scene.”

  “What’s not your scene, fun?”

  I snort. “You call that tourist circus fun? You must not be from around here. That place is a skid mark on this street.”

  “Whatever.” She picks at the corner of a menu, shutting me out. I might’ve been silently ragging on those other guys earlier for their ineffective attempts to catch her eye, but I haven’t done much better. Then again, I’m not trying.

  I shift, pulling my wallet from my back pocket and peeling a twenty from the wad of cash inside. I toss it onto the bar, catch the other bartender’s eye. “Whatever the lady wants.”

  She slaps the bill and slides it right back to me, snatching her hand away before I can even think about deflecting her. “Uh, the lady doesn’t want your money. And the lady’s name is Lindsey.”

  “That makes it easier on me, then. I didn’t even have to ask. And excuse me for contributing to the cause.” When she shoots daggers at me in the form of a glare, I hold the twenty up between two fingers. “Look, no offense, but I can tell you’re having a bad day. You could’ve used this for a few beers, a couple shots, maybe even a cab. But if you’re not going to use it, I might as well give it to my friend here.” I dangle the bill over the tip jar and she watches it intently, trading glances between it and me.

  “But, I understand if you’re into that girl power thing. That ‘don’t open the door for me and undermine my own capabilities’ bullshit. I was just trying to be nice.”

  Chewing on her lip, Lindsey draws a menu toward her with one finger, then pushes it away. “Yeah, no. Thanks for the effort, but I kind of just want to go home. I guess that was nice, though.” She angles her head toward the tip jar, and the bill flutters down to join the others.

  “None taken. Come on, I’ll drop you off.” I go to stand, pausing beside the stool to get my bearings. I’ve been affixed to this bar for almost two hours, and although I’m well practiced at concealing how much I’ve drunk, I don’t want to fall on my face and cause a scene.

  “Again, no offense, but I don’t think you’re in the position to take anyone home.”

  The bartender, Tripp, who’s also the owner and a good buddy of mine—one who does his best to fend off my efforts at tarnishing my own name—slides my debit card and receipt toward me so I can close my tab. I should’ve remembered to use cash. More discreet. My fingers are thick and clumsy around the thin plastic, and the card bobbles, tumbling toward the floor. Before I can retrieve it, Lindsey’s hunched over and fishing it out from beneath her stool.

  She glances at my card—awesome, because if she didn’t know who I was before, she certainly does now—and hands it back to me almost dismissively. No questions, no requests for photos or autographs or any of the usual clamor that occurs when people realize who I am.

  I watch her as I slide it into my back pocket. “Thanks for your concern, but I have a ride waiting. A sober ride. Take it or leave it.”

  I can see the inner debate play out in her eyes. It’s strange to see someone with thoughts so unguarded. After five years of Raven, it’s a shock to the system. I wonder briefly how young she is.

  Sighing, she shoulders her bag—a beat-up messenger type. She’s not one of those label snobs. “Okay, but don’t think for one second that me taking you up on this offer is also me making some unspoken agreement to sleep with you for your ‘generosity.’ I won’t. Let me make that clear.” I’m holding up my hands in surrender before she literally puts her hand over my mouth, making me swallow any words on the verge of coming out. “And don’t touch me. I have pepper spray. Seriously.”

  “Pardon me for pointing it out, but you touched me first. Just saying.” She breezes past me without a word before halting right in front of the glass door, glancing out. Then she spins right back toward me. “Is there a back door we can use?”

  “There’s always a back door,” I say with a straight face. I catch myself before my hand fits in the curve of her lower back to guide the way, waving toward the door past the restrooms instead. “Right this way.” I consider questioning her decision to slip out the back, but I push down my curiosity. She doesn’t seem to want to explain, and I don’t want to seem too eager to know anything about her. For seeming so naïve, she’s not defenseless. Not at all like I first assumed.

  We step out into the back alley, and though she doesn’t know where we’re going, she walks a step ahead of me. I stuff my hands into my pockets, the tang of the oily urban air partially cleaving my whiskey stupor. She’s mostly going in the right direction, so I don’t stop her. The other way would’ve been quicker, but I’m enjoying the view too much. She’s tall—maybe five-eight or so—and her frayed jean shorts hug her swaying hips like a glove. Black ink shows just above the back of her tank top, and I can just make out the top half of a circle in the dull lighting. I bite back a smile; I’m no stranger to ink. Half of my torso, some of both hands, and most of my arms, from chest to shoulder to wrist, are covered in it.

  We pause at a cross street, and she takes a step before realizing I’m no longer following her. I tilt my head left and we continue north, away from the bustle of Broadway. My pickup point is a few blocks from here, in a quieter area.

  Lindsey’s strides are less confident now, eating up less ground. She glances behind us a few times before we reach Carter’s black Tahoe.

  I open the back door for her, and she glances inside, trying to get a look at the driver. “Carter, this is Lindsey, go ahead and give her a nice wave so she doesn’t think we’re abducting her or something.”

  Carter, my best friend an
d the drummer from my band, looks up from his phone, lifting two fingers in his version of a friendly greeting. “Hey, Lindsey,” he says, shooting me a look. He’s used to me bringing girls home, but I promised him just the other night that I was done with it. I used women like I used alcohol—to plug up the hole in my heart. My selection could’ve been better, safer, but at those times, I wasn’t sober enough or happy enough to care.

  Tonight, I didn’t even have to look for someone. She found me. But I steal a glance at her, looking small and alone in the backseat, as I fold myself into the front passenger side and shut the door, and I know I won’t try to take her home. The look in her eyes back at the bar, irises tainted with caution, told me she wasn’t the type. Plus, I’m not one to take advantage of someone’s fragile mental state. I believe in karma, to an extent. She’s certainly been a bitch to me.

  “Where are we taking you?” I ask. I repeat myself when I see her reflection in the side mirror, looking out the window, her mind somewhere else again.

  “Oh, um, I live at Carrington Park,” she says, her voice quieter since she’s now twisted in her seat, facing the rear window.

  Carter gives me a questioning look and points to his head, hinting she’s crazy, and I shrug at him. It might be rude to presume, but I don’t really know her enough to firmly deny it. Putting the truck in gear, he pulls away from the curb.

  “Could we not? I can’t . . . don’t want to go home tonight.”

  I shoot Carter a covert look when his hands flex on the steering wheel and he grumbles just loud enough for me to hear. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. “Okay, anywhere else we can take you?” Carter amends, raising his eyebrows at me. I nod in approval. Better.

  I see her lick her pouty lower lip, then bite it, but not in a seductive way. Earlier, it was reddened and raw from where she’d probably been chewing on it all day.

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  My confusion aside, she sounds lost. Utterly lost. And I don’t think she’s that great of an actress, I can practically see every thought flicker across her features. “If you don’t mind a bachelor pad that’s in no way suitable for female company, you could come to our place. Hang out for a little while.” I figure she just needs somewhere to wind down, maybe. Somewhere she doesn’t feel alone. I can commiserate.