You'd Be Mine(80)

Jefferson’s eyes dart to mine. “Really?” He looks far too pleased with himself.

I roll mine, lightly. “Get over yourself, rock star.”

Jason holds a hand out, offering to help Jefferson up. I watch them for a moment, feeling a rush of happiness at the sight of their bickering. Jefferson’s heckling my best friend over the Speedo thing, and Jason’s slugging him harder than necessary in the arm.

I haven’t forgotten when Jason for real punched Jefferson, and I haven’t forgotten when Jefferson deserved it. But I figure that’s what makes us a family. Going through all the garbage and coming out the other end, still caring about each other.

The other day, someone from People’s country music issue came out to interview us. They wanted the scoop on our two bands. We answered questions about the tour from last summer, Jefferson’s battles with drinking and grief, me living in the shadows of Cora and Robbie … our on-and-off-and-on-again love …

And when you lay it all out there like that, it seems unbelievable. Truly. The stuff of a country song, even.

But I don’t know. Isn’t life in general pretty unbelievable? In my mind, if it’s not, you’re doing it wrong.

“You coming?” Jefferson’s a few yards ahead of me, waiting. I take in the sight of him: strong, standing tall, comfortable in his own skin. His face is shadowed under the brim of his cap, but I can still see his white teeth flashing in an easy, loping smile. He looks younger than when we first met. Less world-weary and angry. It shows in his music, too. He’s going to blow them all away this summer.

If they thought bad boy Clay Coolidge was sexy, just wait until they feast their eyes on brilliant and glowing Jefferson. I’m gonna need to tattoo my name on his forehead to fend them off.

He raises his hand, holding it out to me. I reach for it, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around his neck, leaning back to see him more clearly.

“They can see us,” he reminds me.

“Who cares?”

“Well,” he teases. “Pops might. I don’t think I could stand another night of old war stories from ’Nam.”

“Could be worse. He hasn’t taken to cleaning his hunting rifles in front of you like he used to with Robbie.”

Jefferson shudders.

“For Pete’s sake, Coolidge, your brother was a Marine.”

“Yeah, but I’m a singer.”

I press my lips together, and his eyes follow the movement, causing my stomach to do a little flip. A year later and it still flips every single time. I hope that never goes away. “You’re so much more than a singer, Jefferson.”

His lips quirk. “As long as I’m yours, I don’t care what I am.”

“Dang, boy. Where’d you get your lines?”

“My girlfriend’s a songwriter. She’s taught me a few things.”

I press closer to him so that our lips are millimeters apart. “Maybe it’s time you teach me a few things.”

He groans, taking my lips against his. When we pull apart, he shakes his head. “You are evil, and your grandpa is gonna murder me in my sleep.”

“You still love me.”

“Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.”

“I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

“We should go on tour together.”

“I thought we already were.”

“Shh. I know that. But hear me out. Last time, it was sort of forced on us. Like fate was pulling the strings or whatever. That whole speeding-train, inevitable-conclusion, we’re-probably-hurtling-toward-disaster-but-we’re-masochists-for-fame kind of thing.

“So I’m asking you this time. Forget the contracts and haircuts and set lists. It’s just me, Annie Mathers, asking you, Jefferson Coolidge, if you’d like to sing with me this summer?”

Jefferson takes a half step back, his expression solemn. He holds our hands loosely between us, his thumbs stroking the insides of my wrists. His eyes pierce me, and he smiles.

“There is nothing in the world I’d love more. I’m in, Mathers.”





acknowledgments


I will be forever grateful to everyone who read Annie and Clay’s story and thought it might look good on a shelf one day.

To my agent, Kate McKean, who has the unenviable task of helping me to “cultivate my chill” and who’s had my back from the very first. Every author needs someone so outstanding in their corner.

To Alicia Clancy. When it mattered most, you were one of You’d Be Mine’s earliest cheerleaders. Thank you.

To my editor, Vicki Lame. I’m fortunate to have found someone who really gets the rich history of country music but can also objectively edit kissing. It’s a rare and beautiful combo and you have it in spades, my friend.

To everyone at Wednesday Books who took this story (and me) on. You’re doing a mighty work in the industry and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. Thank you.

To my good friend and critique partner, Karen McManus. You deserve every bit of the success, glitter, and pies that come your way. Thanks for believing in me, even when I wrote terrible science fiction.

To my crew of talented CPs: Dr. Jenny Howe, “Twinsie” Annette Christie, and Meredith Ireland. Your thoughtful feedback and advice keep me going and make me look better than I am. You are far more than CPs; you’re dear friends who are stuck with me for life.