"Listen, don't worry about it, okay?" I spat. I wasn't sticking around any longer to deal with this man or his condescending attitude. He didn't know me, didn't know anything about me or my situation. I wasn't going to stand around and let him judge what he didn't understand.

  "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" He made a show of throwing the rag into the sink from across the room before placing his hands on his hips.

  "It means that I'm not sticking around, so you don't have to clean up another one of Mick's messes," I said, gathering myself from the floor and forcing my body in the direction of the front door, despite my dizziness. "By the way, I'm not anyone's responsibility and I'm most certainly not a stray," I said from the doorway before heading outside and into the muggy August heat.

  I wasn't exactly sure where I thought that I was headed, but I figured that the dirt road ahead might be a good place to start. I set off across the front lawn towards it in hopes that somehow - between grass, dirt and blacktop - I'd find some sort of solution.

  Chapter Three

  Thirty excruciatingly hot minutes later, I was starting to regret my decision. I was beginning to fully understand the true meaning of the word boonies and my body was still longing for the hydration that it had been seeking earlier, the heat from the sun and the unexpected exercise only heightening that need.

  I squinted sharply, my eyes pulling so thin they were practically closed. I shook my head, disgusted with myself and my decision making. No amount of searching would conjure the blacktop that wasn't in sight or the cars that were doubtful to be traveling down this desolate road.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that I hadn't been made for traversing dirt roads. Growing up in Florida, one of three houses on a cul-de-sac in a very well-to-do neighborhood hadn't afforded me this type of excitement. These feet weren't made for dirt roads that hid rocks and sharp objects underneath their surface. They were made for expensive high-heels and even more expensive cowgirl boots. Both of which I used to own a lot of. Most of them now sat in the window of a high-end second hand shop just off of Broadway in downtown Nashville.

  Spending fifteen hundred dollars on a pair of Lucchese's was a thing of the past. My heart twisted at the idea of someone else enjoying the comfort of the expensive leather.

  I had rid myself of a lot of luxuries prior to joining the tour, needing a change. The idea had been to rid myself of what I considered to be a crutch - my father's money and everything that it had purchased. Because I'd always had that to fall back on, I'd somehow categorized myself as lesser of a musician than my peers. I wasn't struggling. I wasn't living the gritty lifestyle that was typical of most musicians. There would always be a level of guilt that came along with not having gone through that struggle.

  So, I'd acted on impulse, giving up everything that I was comfortable with in exchange for…this. My mind settled back on the present. My eyes combed the distance, once again looking for pavement that would signify the next step of my journey. Sweat dripped down my back, soaking the thin silk material. My head still throbbed and I felt like I'd guzzled sand the night prior, not Jim Beam. Just the thought of it made me nauseous.

  My stomach lurched as I made a hasty retreat towards the tree line. I made it just in time to relieve myself of a portion of last night's mistakes. I wanted to cry, badly. But I couldn't. I wasn't that type of girl. In fact, I hadn't cried since my mom had died. I'd decided long ago to save my tears for moments that truly called for them and I didn't deem this moment worthy.

  For the first time in a long time, I prayed. I prayed that someone would pluck me from this obscure, heated, dusty hell of a dirt road and take me back to civilization, sure that the hustle and bustle of Nashville would provide me with some answers.

  What I really needed, I realized, was to talk to Kole. My sister. The responsible one. The one who always thought things through. She'd know how to get me out of this mess. Too bad I didn't have my phone. It was with the rest of my things - on tour with Mick.

  I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, glancing down at the robe to make sure that none of the puke had made its way onto the front. Besides the dinginess from the dust that had settled onto its surface from my journey, everything else appeared to be intact. I made my way back to the road, convincing myself that I needed to press forward.

  I had one recently pedicured foot back on the road when I had to jump backwards to dodge an oncoming truck. I landed harshly on my butt and cussed, eating the dirt from the truck's aftermath. Puke and dirt did not complement one another. I gathered the robe back together, shoving the important parts back underneath as I stood to catch a glimpse of the word FORD in the distance.

  The truck skidded to a halt, the back end swerving out to the right. With gears grinding and the engine protesting, the driver whipped the old clunker around and headed back in my direction. I was fairly certain that I should run. Nothing good ever happened in movies when a woman was stranded in the middle of nowhere and a random passerby stopped to pick her up. Hitchhiking was a thing of the past. I think I had even watched a program on Dateline recently about the hidden evils of hopping rides with an unknown. But because I was so blatantly good at screwing up, I stood on the side of the road like a stranded puppy, awaiting the driver of the Ford.

  My heart fell when Griffin's face came into view. The truck pulled alongside me, brakes and gears whining as it came to a stop. He leaned his head out of the window, draping a lean arm over the ledge.

  I scowled over at him. When I had prayed for help, I hadn't considered him an option. Hadn't he just called me a stray and pointed out his disinterest in dealing with one? So why, in God's name, was he here with that stupid, condescending grin on his face?

  "Hop in," he said, flashing a set of pearly whites.

  He was enjoying this - the turmoil and embarrassment of a complete stranger. Maybe he was just as big of an asshole as his brother. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of climbing into that Godforsaken truck.

  "Screw off," I mumbled.

  "Your language is as foul as Mick's," he noted.

  I groaned - the only alternative to crying at this point - spinning on my heel and flinching because I'd agitated an open wound on the bottom of my foot. I continued down the road in the opposite direction despite the pain. "Stupid Callahan's. 'Hop in' he says," I mumbled, mocking his tone, not even coming close to his gravelly voice. "Just like he hadn't called me a stray," I continued. "'Your language is foul' he says…"

  I hadn't noticed the presence of the truck until he spoke. "You always talk to yourself when you're angry?" he questioned, squinting an eye at the sun.

  "Sometimes," I muttered, frustrated that I'd even honored him with a response.

  "Get in," he suggested, his tone growing serious.

  "For someone who seems to disapprove of foul language, you sure know how to provoke it."

  "Now that's not a very nice thing to say," he retorted, his lips pulling into a half smile.

  My heart skipped a beat. I made a mental note to have it checked when I could afford insurance before lengthening my strides and praying that he'd leave me the hell alone.

  "Kennedy, don’t make me get out of this truck," he cautioned from beside me. No matter how hard I tried to out walk him, I couldn't compete with a vehicle. Even as old as the clunker was, it could outrun me at my best.

  If I felt like our time together would extend beyond today, then I would've informed him that I didn't like being told what to do. But I considered him to be as temporary as this situation, which meant I felt no obligation to relay the information. I kept walking instead.

  "Kennedy," he demanded. "Shit. Dammit," he said in between huffs.

  "Now who has the foul mouth?" I quipped, still placing one achy foot in front of the other.

  I heard a door squeak open in protest, signifying my cue to run. I took off down the road like a bat out of hell. My heart hammered away in my chest as I attempted escape. I heard his heavy footfalls a few seconds prior to being tackled in the patch of grass that ran parallel to the road.

  "Jesus!" I gasped, attempting to replenish the oxygen that had just been forced from my lungs. "What did you go and do that for?" I accused. I found myself stuffing body parts back into the robe for the nth time that day.

  He slung my five-foot-seven frame over his shoulder, my stomach performing an uncomfortable roll. He didn't have a clue what I had regurgitated in the woods moments before his arrival.

  "Put me down or I'm going to hurl down your back," I managed through short breaths. "I mean it," I reconfirmed after my stomach did another roll. "I did it right before you showed up and I'm going to do it again…"

  "Okay, okay," he grumbled, shuffling me off of his shoulders and repositioning me until I was cradled in his arms. I shot him an angry look, letting him know that I didn't appreciate the new situation. "I'm just making sure that you don’t run."

  "That's what strays do," I pointed out heatedly.

  Knowing that I didn't have any say in the matter, I settled into his chest, draping a hesitant arm around his neck. I didn't like the tiny pricks of awareness that shot up my arm. I looked back up at him, with the intentions of shooting him another scowl, but found myself admiring his face instead.

  He huffed, an exasperated laugh escaping. "I'm sorry about the stray comment. It had little to do with you and more to do with Mick."

  I remained silent for the rest of our brief walk, too angry with myself for noticing the curve in his nose again. He opened the passenger side door and sat me onto the seat. I was surprised at how clean the interior was. It was immaculate actually.

  "Here, take these," he said, throwing a bottle of Tylenol in my direction and motioning towards a fresh bottle of water that sat sweating in the cup holder. "Something tells me that you might be suffering from a hangover."

  "Thanks, Griffin," I mumbled, counting out the appropriate amount of pills into my palm, tossing them into my mouth and killing the entire 20 oz. in a few long gulps.

  "Griff," he said, climbing into the driver's seat. "It's just…Griff."

  *****

  I frowned at myself in the mirror, my hair dripping wet from the shower I had just stepped out of. I hated the blonde that the record label had insisted on. I hated it even more that I had allowed them to talk me in to it. Naturally, I was a strawberry blonde that teetered more towards strawberry than blonde. But who I was naturally wasn't a part of the 'image' that they were trying to portray - visually or musically.

  They hated my looks. They hated my music. Honestly, I wasn't even sure why they had signed me to begin with. I was also currently in limbo as to whether or not my contract was still valid since I had told one of the big wigs to screw off during our last 'creative' meeting - which, by the way, had never turned out to be very creative.

  When I came to Nashville, I had intended on doing things my way - like I did most things in my life. I knew that I'd have to give a little, but changing who I was entirely wasn't something that I was interested in doing. I was an artist. I liked having the liberty to think freely, to create at random, to shape and reshape and doing that required flexibility - leeway that the label didn't intend on giving me. So, at a crossroads is where I stood with awful blonde hair, fingers that wouldn't create melodies and lyrics that didn't make sense once they hit the paper.

  There was a knock at the door. I froze, listening.

  "I'm going to set the clothes outside of the door. There's an unused toothbrush in the linen closet and toothpaste underneath the sink," Griff instructed from the hallway. "Mick's sending someone to bring the rest of your things over later. He says he got tied up and sends his apologies." The last bit was said snidely and with more sarcasm than you could fit into an episode of Seinfeld.

  I didn't respond. I felt raw and my embarrassment hadn't subsided. I had allowed Mick into my pants, something that I had just been ridiculing Mel for doing. I was no better than her. Worse, I corrected because we had both fallen into bed with him, but she had managed to secure her spot on the tour and my job was a bit up in the air. And somehow, Mick had seen fit to bring me here to Griff's house so that he'd know the extent of my mistakes too.

  "Kennedy?" His voice was soft, almost unrecognizable.

  My heart-rate kicked up. Dammit. "Yeah?" I questioned.

  "Just making sure that you hadn't hung yourself in the shower."

  I scowled, listening to his laughter on the other side. For a moment, I had thought that he was going to be nice. For a moment, I had lost my ever-loving mind.

  "I couldn't find a noose," I snapped.

  There was no response from the other side. I tried convincing myself that it was better that way. As soon as I got my things back, I'd call a cab and get the heck out of here.

  I brushed my teeth, a task that was beyond overdue, running my tongue across the smooth surfaces and forcing a smile. I had my mother's smile, something that I was proud of. Since she had died of congestive heart failure almost a decade ago, I appreciated anything that made me feel close to her. My vocal abilities and guitar skills had been acquired from her too. It was probably at least half of the reason that I was so dead set on chasing after this dream of mine.

  I waited a few more moments to ensure that the coast was completely clear before opening the door and finding the clothes that Griff had mentioned lying on the other side. I slid into the grey pajama bottoms and Tennessee Titans t-shirt, trying hard not to notice the masculine smell that cocooned itself around me. Turning my focus instead to my hair, I flipped the wet strands to the side that I normally parted to, content with allowing it to air-dry. Kole would swear that I'd won the hair lottery. I was one of those people who had that hair that tended to dry into wavy tresses that looked intentional, and thank God because I wouldn't have spent the time on it if I'd had to.

  I made my way to the kitchen, surprised to find a woman standing guard over Griff. She stood, arms folded across her chest with an agitated look etched onto her face. Within milliseconds I became the target of those daggers. Griff pulled his head out of the fridge, a Bud Light bottle in his hand. He twisted the top off, tipped his head back and took a few long pulls from the bottle. A stream of the beer slid down his mouth and over his chin, the mystery woman taking a moment to peel her glare from me and wipe at the stray liquid, plunking a manicured finger into her mouth afterwards for show.

  "Hello," I managed, fighting my own agitation for having witnessed the gesture and feeling the slightest twinge of jealousy.

  "When you said Mick had brought home a stray, I didn't envision that," she said, her lips forming into a bit of a pout.

  I wasn't sure which was worse, being referred to as a 'stray' or a 'that'. And hadn't Griff apologized for the stray remark already? He should know that apologies were best received when they were heartfelt.

  "That is Kennedy," Griff said, smiling over at me.

  He looked rather relaxed considering there was a woman in our presence who seemed to think that we were on the plains of Africa and saw fit to mark her territory. I swear, she was one step shy of lifting her leg and peeing on him. I had news for her, she needn't worry. Griff was all hers. But it still didn't stop me from disliking her. Women like her always got under my skin. Clingy and needy, they had no idea what a turnoff that was for most men. And if she needed to prove that Griff was hers that hard, then maybe he wasn't as hers as she thought.

  "So, what's the deal with that," she questioned, ignoring me and intentionally using the word again. She seemed to know that I'd take offense. I mean, who wouldn't? Being a pronoun wasn't fun by anyone's standards.

  "Felicia, it's temporary," Griff soothed. "She's on the tour and Mick assures me that he's making arrangements." He took another pull from his beer, stopping mid-gulp. He brought the bottle down to chest level. "What? I promise."

  Her features softened as she leaned forward, planting her hands possessively onto his chest and stealing a quick kiss.

  Something inside me didn't like. It irked me - bugged me like when you scratched at the same place for any length of time. That something inside of me could go to hell. I pulled myself together and headed towards the refrigerator. In my experience, there was one surefire cure for a hangover: drinking more alcohol. I grabbed the handle and pulled the door open like I owned the place, seeking and finding another Bud.

  "Mind if I have one of these?" I questioned, the top already twisted off and the bottle halfway to my lips.

  "Not at all," Griff responded.

  I took a swig, fought like hell not to make a face - because the last thing that I wanted was more alcohol - and swallowed. "He's right you know?" I said to her.

  Her fingers curled possessively into his plaid shirt as she stared at me blankly then back up towards Griff.

  Am I not speaking English? "Is this thing on?" I joked, tapping the top of the bottle like it was a microphone. "It's temporary. A few too many drinks, a couple of mistakes. That's all," I said flippantly. And then, because apparently my brain couldn't suppress it and I had no control over my blasted tongue, I added, "I love the thing that Griff does with his tongue though. Don't you?"

  "Listen, you little leech, if you laid one slutty finger on-"

  "Uncle Griff!" a voice called from the front door.

  Griff sent a groan in my direction. I shrugged innocently in response to the frustration on his face. He turned his attention towards the girl who was bounding across the hardwood, blonde hair flying behind her. His face lit up, a smile sliding across it that I had yet to see. It was even better than the one that had made my heart flip-flop earlier in the day - which was precisely why the organ was betraying me now.

  "How's my Hannah?" Griff questioned, capturing the girl in his arms before standing.

  "Ornery as ever," a woman answered, strolling casually through the door. She had raven hair that matched Griff's and the same blue eyes. As much as Griff and Mick were different, these two were alike. There was no denying that this was his sister and judging by the audible huff that came from Blondie and the disapproving stare that I caught with my peripheral, Blondie and Sister did not get along.