Rock and Roll Country (Jesse's Girl #1) (2 page)

Just like that the chase was on. I had one more night in this city, and before it was done, Sophie Westbrook would be mine. Prying eyes all turned on me, I make my way back to the band. Snickers and jeers launch from each one of them as we rehash how the great Jesse Lee struck out. It wasn’t a strike, though, more of a near miss. I can tell she wants me as much as I want her. It was written in the way her tongue subconsciously raked over her lips as I sipped from my cup, and the way her pulse quickened at my touch when my hand wrapped around her dainty wrist. Sophie is reeling with sexual tension, and my dick has just the right amount of swell to release it. Discreetly readjusting myself, I watch the subtle shake of her ass as she carries an order to her next table. It was near impossible to see from the stage, but when she bends over the table to place an order of onion rings in front of the fat bastard, who is already getting a little too friendly with her, I can see the hint of just the right amount of plumpness making up her bum to leave any man breathless.

Laughing the whole way, Chubby wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her onto his lap. Hand clenching my beer glass so hard it snaps; I watch with gritted teeth as she fights her way free. Mopping up the steady flow of golden foam, Tag leans forward. “Alright there, mate?”

“Fine,” I answer, through gritted teeth.

“Doesn’t seem like it to me. Don’t let her get to you. There are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“I said, I’m fine,” I snap, dabbing at my beer soaked jeans.

“Whatever you say, man.” He leans back in his chair as we’re joined by our original waitress.

“Ya’ll are a hell of a lot of trouble, you know that,” she states, her thick southern accent clouding her voice.

“Sorry,” I reply, accepting the towel she holds out, and using it to wipe the stains from my shoes as best I can, “I’ll happily pay for the glass. Just add it to my tab.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, sugar. Tony never springs for the good stuff. Not with this bunch of rednecks, at least. What happened? The karaoke not to your likin’? Truth be told, it’s not my taste either, but I can’t go around breaking glassware every time it grates at my nerves.”

“You’re cute,” Tag cuts in, taking her hand in his, “anybody ever told you that?” 

“Well, plenty have, but none as handsome as you,” she answers, winking and taking her hand back. “Can I get you fellas anything else?” 

“Actually,” I begin, turning my gaze toward Sophie once more, “you wouldn’t happen to have her number would you?” 

She sizes me up for a few seconds. “For you? I might. Depends on your intentions.”

“Perfectly honest, I swear,” I laugh, tossing my hands in the air in submission. 

“Damn,” she replies, taking her order pad in hand. “Had you said you were looking to take her outback and screw her sideways, I may have given up my intel. As it stands...”

“Oh come on now,” Tag breaks in again, lifting his gaze from her large breasts to her brown eyes. “Don’t do him like that. Him and her, you and me. I think we could all have a real nice time together.”

She snorts. “I can tell you one thing for sure, Sophie Westbrook isn’t a foursome kind of girl.”

“And you?” He questions, eyebrows raised.

“I’m a different story,” she jots something down on her pad, and slaps it down on the table in front of him, “and if you’re lucky, you might just get to write a page in my book.”

“Mmm...you are a naughty one, aren’t you? What time do you get off?”

“If I’m lucky, just after you pick me up.” She winks. “My shift ends at two.”

We’re able to contain our riotous laughter long enough for her to walk away. “Sounds like you’re in for a good night, mate,” I offer, standing. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow for sound check.”

“You don’t want to get in on that?” Tag offers, nodding to his conquest for the evening.

“No thanks. See ya tomorrow.”

Two in the morning, and my feet are dragging. Thankfully, it’s cooled off some, though just barely enough to be noticeable. Fingers wrapped tightly around the knife I carry for protection; I make my way to my car. Carefully, checking my surroundings, I open the door and climb inside as quickly as I can.

Simultaneously, shoving the key in the ignition and locking the door, I pray that it’ll start without fail. The clunking sound of the engine letting me know God decided to answer my request this time, I put it in gear and pull out of the lot. Beads of sweat rolling down my back, I let the windows down as soon as I’m on the interstate.

The good thing about late nights at Tony’s is there’s little traffic to add to my commute. The bad is that Marcus will be up in approximately five hours, and I’ll most likely have just entered dreamland. Pulling up to my apartment, I shut off the ignition, grab my purse, and grip my house key firmly in hand. The second I pop the locks on the doors I make a run for it. 

Heart on the verge of explosion, I burst through the front door and lock both locks behind me. Finally home, I lean against the wall and slip off my shoes. Like a zombie coming to life for the first time since rigamortis, Markita slowly inches her way upright on the couch.

“Rough night?” She croaks.

“No worse than any other,” I sigh, plopping down next to her. “How was my boy?”

“He was great! I couldn’t have asked for a better kid.”

“Glad to hear it. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” she states, taking my purse and slamming it on the broken down coffee table. “Are you kidding me? TJ would flip his lid if he knew I asked you for money for babysitting my nephew. We family, Country. Family always has each other’s back.”

I lift a bill marked final notice from the pile on the table, and force myself not to cry. “Oh yeah? Looks like my parents missed the memo.”

“If you need some help...”

“No it’s fine,” I answer, squaring my shoulders. “I made pretty good tips tonight, and Marcus gets his survivors’ benefits next week. I’ll figure it out.”

“You sure?”

Yawning, I nod my head.

“Well, in that case I’d better get out of here and let you get some sleep. He’s in your bed. Said he wanted to wait up for you. He passed out around ten-thirty.”

“Thanks.” Smiling genuinely, I follow her to the door. “I can’t wait to cuddle up and join him.”

“See ya tomorrow at mom’s barbecue.”

“We’ll be there. Do I need to bring anything?”

“You bring Marcus and I’m sure that’s all they’ll need,” she laughs.

“Sounds easy enough. I’ll see ya then.” 

Closing and locking the door behind her, I gather my mail and purse, and head to the bedroom. Sure enough, Marcus has chosen my lumpy full-sized mattress over his practically new twin on the opposite wall. Placing the mail on my nightstand, I run my hand through his soft curls and kiss his forehead. He wiggles a bit, but not much and I sigh a breath of relief. If he woke up now, I’d never get him back to sleep and with everything I’m carrying on my shoulders I’ll crack if I don’t get some rest soon.

Tiptoeing to the closet, I grab my tips from my purse and hang it on the hook. Counting my cash, I make my way to the dresser and carefully pry open the bottom drawer. Praying it doesn’t squeak as it has the tendency to do, I dig through the stack of jeans until I find the ones I’m looking for. A pair of worn denim skinny legs, I haven’t been able to fit since the eighth grade. I’m still not sure how they got thrown in with the bits I grabbed from my parents’ when I left. Regardless, they’ve proven themselves useful.

Removing the carefully folded stack of money from the pocket, I take my measly twenty-five dollars in tips and add it to the stack. Two-hundred and seventy-five dollars total. That’s how much money I have to my name. Our paychecks should be arriving in the bank next Thursday night, but mine will be gone the second it hits. Covering the fifty-dollar overdraft from when I put gas in my tank last week, and paying what it can of my rent and electric bill.

Begging whoever will listen to let my car hold out just a little longer, I tuck the jeans back in their rightful place, grab a pair of pajamas, and head into the bathroom. Washing my face and brushing my hair out from its ponytail, I stare at myself in the mirror. At this rate, I’ll never save enough for Marcus’ tuition to private school.

It’s all I’ve been hoping for this entire summer. I’d heard the public school systems in Memphis weren’t much to be proud of, but it wasn’t until trying to enroll my child in one that I really understood. So, I committed myself to working as many hours as possible at Tony’s and picking up the slack with as many cleaning gigs I could book in the meantime. That was in April. Two months later, dipping into the savings for gas here or groceries there, and two hundred and seventy-five dollars is all I have to show for it. 

It’s times like these that I wonder whether my parents are ever thinking of me at all.
Do they regret not standing by me when I needed them most? Is it difficult for them to walk past my empty room each day? Have they been looking for me for all these years?
No, of course not. With Daddy’s resources they could’ve found me in less than a day, and knowing my mother she waited all of five minutes before turning my room into her own personal meditation studio.

Shaking off my sense of hopelessness, I brush my teeth and climb in next to Marcus. He whines a little when I slide him closer to the wall, but doesn’t wake. Sinking into the so-worn-I-can-feel-the-springs mattress, I glance at the brochures on the nightstand. All glossy publications filled with the most important facts about various private academies around town. Unable to bear the constant disappointment I put my child through, I open the drawer and rake them off inside. Schools, bills, even basic necessities will have to be tomorrow’s problem. Today, the only thing I can focus on is sleep.

Three in the morning and I’m awakened by the sounds of what one can only assume to be animalistic fucking in the next room. Growling at Tag’s constant antics, I flip the pillow over my head and close my eyes. The wall begins to shake taking my headboard with it, and I realize it’s going to be a while before sleep finds me again. Dragging the duvet from the bed, I wrap myself up and head into the sitting room portion of my suite. A quick flip through the channels reminding me just how much I, for the most part, hate American television I flip open my laptop and click to the folder I use to find most of my comfort.

Eyes radiantly blue like sapphires, skin the golden blush of a peach, and hair so crisply golden it could’ve been colored by wheat fields in bloom hitting me all at once, I stare at the monitor.  Cressida in all her glory. At age thirteen, I fell for her faster than a flash of lightening. It took a few years for her to return my affections, but once she did we were inseparable. So much so that at nineteen, I did the unthinkable and married her.

For one beautiful year we had it all. At least we had as much as two kids can when they piss off their extremely wealthy families and find themselves cut off from the well. Still, even with the adjustment to a simpler way of life we lived in bliss. Then the cancer came, a rapidly growing tumor in her brain that would send its destructive little minion cells to her liver and lymph nodes before the second consult.

For four months I watched as chemo and radiation mangled the perfectly painted portrait that was Cressida. I cried with her in the bathroom as her hair fell in clumps in the shower around us. When she was too weak to make it off the bathroom floor after hours of vomiting, I brought in a blanket and our pillows and slept at her side. And the day, that horrible, life-altering day, she died I watched her laugh like nothing was hurting. Saw her cry as she said goodbye to the ones she held dear, held her hand as the sun set. Then, I laid with her, soaking in the last moments we had. Selfishly, not wanting to give her up; amazingly unwilling to let her stay. When the tears came — mine, not hers — I felt so weak, so unworthy. This was the end. She needed my strength, deserved it. What happened instead was she attempted to give me the last bit of hers.

Reaching her bone thin fingertips to my cheek and planting the softest kiss on my lips, she whispered, “Find someone to love once I’m gone. Hold them, laugh and cry with them, and most of all love them just like you’ve loved me.”

Before I could respond the monitors went blank, her pulse slowly jumping to zero. As the doctors and nurses rushed in, I leaned forward kissed her pale lips once more, and whispered, “Never.”

That was the night my old identity ceased to exist, the night I became Jesse Lee. Music had always been a passion, a talent my father thought a waste. My earliest memories of what career I’d choose when I grew up involved me proudly informing my teacher in primary school that I was going to be a rock star. My father dismissed the idea almost as soon as it’d come out of my mouth. I was going to go to Oxford, study business, and take over in his name once he was ready to retire. No crazy dreams for his son, no sir. My father didn’t matter anymore though, he’d warned me not to come back once my marriage ended, and with Cressida’s final words it had.

I booked a ticket to Los Angeles for the day after the funeral, and packed my bags. I wasn’t sure what America held for me, but I’d always heard it was the land of opportunity and I was determined to take it. Luckily, unlike so many other fools who blindly fly to West Hollywood hoping to make all their dreams come true, opportunity did find me. In the form of Tag, a fellow Brit, who moved here a few years ago and was in a band looking for a lead singer. The fact that I also played guitar was an added bonus.

Three years later and as they say, the rest is history. Our band is a household name across the globe. At least, I thought it was until I met Sophie. Thoughts turning to her for the millionth time tonight, I wonder what she’s doing now. Not since Cressida has a woman captured my attention in such a way. Terrified by the implications of it all, I shake my head clear and crawl back into bed. Tomorrow we have our concert. The following day we leave. Period. As soon as I get one foot out of this city, I’ll get Sophie Westbrook out of my head.