You'd Be Mine(39)

“Went to band camp a little ways from here. Found this spot a few summers ago…” He swerves us around a particularly deep rut and pulls off to the side in a patch of tall grass before parking and shutting off the lights.

We climb out of the small car, and Jason pops the trunk. Annie flicks on her flashlight, and everyone takes turns pulling out blankets and a cooler. The moon is plenty bright out here so far from the lights of the city, and we don’t even need the flashlights to find our way to the shore. Lake Erie is in its full glory this evening, freshwater waves crashing and washing along the quiet, rocky beach. The wind whips the humidity right out of the air, and I’m glad I brought a sweatshirt, even though it’s July. Annie and Fitz spread a quilt on the ground, and Jason drops an armful of kindling on the sand. I follow him back to the edge of the woods and start collecting larger driftwood pieces that should burn hot and long. By the time we’re back, Fitz already has a small, smoky fire started, and Kacey’s passing out bottles.

She holds one out to me. “Just soda, Coolidge.”

I take it, pressing the twist cap to my forearm, not removing my gaze, and crack it open without using my fingers. She smirks and holds out her bottle to clink with mine.

“Nice party trick.”

“Lest you think I can’t do anything but sing…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“He can also do a mad Hula-Hoop.”

I groan, tipping back my head. “Damn it, Fitz, you know these hips don’t lie.” And I roll them once in an exaggerated circle as if I can’t prevent it.

Annie giggles, and I turn to see her sitting cross-legged on the blanket, plucking leaves from a few roasting sticks.

“Quiet, you. I’m sure these two have plenty of dirt they’d be willing to share.”

I move to join her on the blanket, taking one of the sticks from her hands and pulling the pocketknife from my belt. I flip it open and slide it along the tip, cleaning it.

Annie leans back, meditating on the cozy fire, and lifts her bottle to her lips, taking a sip before saying, “Not bad for a bunch of Nashville stars, eh?”

I grin. “If you think about it, in all seriousness, we’re barely a step above camping trailers in our buses. Of course, I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon, like some people, Little Miss Country Music Royalty.”

Annie flinches slightly at the title but recovers quickly, slugging me in the arm. “Please. You saw my grandparents’ farm. You’re the rock star.”

I pluck a marshmallow out of the plastic bag and stab it on the end of my stick. Annie passes me another, and I raise a brow.

“Sensuous,” she says, smirking.

I choke. “Excuse me?”

“Since you was already roasting…”

I snort. “Haven’t heard that one before. I’ll have to remember it.”

“Jason,” she says as if that explains everything. Which it does.

I hold out the stick to the fire. Kacey and Fitz are dipping their toes in the surf a few yards in front of us. “Speaking of your ex…”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Lord. Barely. We dated for, like, a month.”

“Long enough to write a song about it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s nothing. As you very well know, I can write a song outta nothing more than a glance. It’s called artistic license.”

I roll the stick between my fingers, evening out the heat. “Silly me, I thought that was called exaggerating.”

Annie gets a couple of crackers ready and reaches for the Hershey bars. “Potato-potahtoe, my friend. ’Sides, it’s not like y’all are complaining when my so-called exaggerations make you heartthrobs.”

I pull back on the stick, tapping the gooey mess with my finger and licking it. Annie’s eyes follow the movement, and I can’t help but remember our kiss from the other night. I know I said we couldn’t do it again. Shouldn’t do it again.

But, fuck, I really want to do it again.

I clear my throat and hold out the stick. She takes the crackers and deftly tugs off the marshmallow mess between, keeping her fingers clean. She repeats it for mine, and I lean the stick against the pile of waiting driftwood.

“Are you implying we weren’t already heartthrobs?”

Annie’s tongue darts out to capture some of the melted chocolate on her top lip, and I take another swig of my Diet Coke, washing down the graham cracker suddenly dry in my throat.

Who knew s’mores could be so hot? Hell, a thousand songs written about dancing in taillights and drinking homemade wine, and not a one about marshmallows. It’s a damn disservice to the industry.

“So if Jefferson is your first name, is Clay your middle name?”

I nod.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you decide to go by it?”

I brush off my fingers, settling back on my elbows. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “I mean, Jefferson is pretty lofty, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but it fits you.” Something in me warms at that.

“I guess, it’s like when I go by Clay, I can be Clay. Like, to the rest of the world.”

“Like, an alter ego?”

“More like a persona I can adopt when I’m onstage. Or being interviewed. Or on a date, even.”