Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (reader novel txt) 📗

My most serious relationship was with my porn collection I’d take to my grave.

“Cool.”

A silence lingered, and I connected Orion’s belt thinking over what to say next. “Is your dad still in New York?”

“Back in Chicago, but visits New York a lot. What about your mom? Is she still in New York?”

“Yup.”

“And you?” he asked softer. “Are you still in New York, or is home somewhere else now?”

“Yeah. I’m still there,” I admitted like I expected him to narrow down the addresses in all of New York and pop up at my tiny apartment. “Just a small home base.”

“Yeah. I have a home base there, too.”

My heart skipped a beat, wondering how far he was from my apartment.

“Upper East Side. Nothing big.”

I laughed, imagining his nothing big was a whole lot different than my less stylish, nothing big, in an up-and-coming neighborhood.

“I’m sure it’s a shack,” I said dubiously.

“Everything is a shack in New York.”

“Very true.”

“Either way, it’s a good enough place to rest my head and write some music in my downtime.”

“You still write the songs?” I asked.

“Almost all of them.”

That made more sense than I wanted it to. I thought back to all the angry songs from their first album that I convinced myself weren’t about me. Seems like maybe they were.

I wrote more than my fair share of angry songs at the same time. The difference was that I sold them to other bands rather than sing them myself. One of my many business ventures Aiken wanted me to combine with my Instagram business to build a brand.

The thought of everyone knowing the songs I wrote left me anxious thinking about them hearing the lyrics and getting a peek inside my soul. It left me exposed and naked.

I currently used a private LLC to sell my music through online avenues. I took every precaution to protect my identity. Before I left high school, I deleted all my social media, only starting up the Instagram I had now because I wanted to share my art and travels, and someone told me I could probably start selling art on Instagram. I made sure to never show my face and used another LLC for that too. I didn’t want to be in the public eye—especially with any connection to the music world.

I’d done that before, and it had been the worst experience of my life.

The one that had pulled me away from Parker Callahan when I’d needed him most.

The one that had left me yearning for a man who stole my heart and ran away to a life I could never be a part of.

“At least I used to write our music,” he grumbled, interrupting my melancholy.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve…” His exhale carried so much weight even I could feel the pressure of it through the phone. “I’ve been in this writer’s block.”

“Shit. That sucks.”

“Tell me about it. We’re supposed to be working on an album soon, but I don’t have any lyrics to sing. I highly doubt our fans will be thrilled with a purely musical album.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. “Why are you pushing making an album while touring? That seems awfully crunched, and I’m sure it’s not helping the stress.”

“Aspen, our manager, has built us up to this point. It’s our year to take everything we worked hard on and shape it into something epic. And that means constantly pushing out product.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have no doubt you’ll get there.” It was on the tip of my tongue to offer to help, but I bit it between my teeth, holding it back, not wanting to tie myself to him anymore. When we’d written music together before, it’d been intense and intimate. Putting myself in that position sounded a lot like asking for more hurt and pain.

“Yeah,” he sighed, not sounding convinced. With another deep sigh, he changed the subject. “Where are you tonight?”

“In the Smoky Mountains, skirting the Tennessee border in Georgia. Where are you?”

“What? Not keeping up with our tour schedule?”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “I wouldn’t know if you were in Seattle or Miami.”

“Mmhmm,” he said doubtfully. “We’re in San Diego right now.”

“Good ole California.”

“Have you been?”

“Not yet. But I want to. I’d love to hike the Sierra Nevada.”

“You’d love it,” he agreed.

“You’ve done it?” I asked, jealous but excited to hear his story.

“We did a small hike one day to an alpine lake. Oren and Brogan apparently wanted to skinny dip in liquid ice.”

“Oh, man.” I laughed, imagining it. “Did you do it?”

“Hell, yeah, I did. It was a long-ass hike.”

“I’m so jealous.”

“I’ll take you there someday,” he promised softly, like maybe if he said it too loud, I’d run. And honestly, I kind of wanted to.

His promise sat like an anvil on my chest, choking the air in my lungs. We could avoid talking about anything from the past, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there, making itself known with the simplest of words. His statement was easy—something anyone would say but came with a wrecking ball of meaning, knocking down the veneer of lies I tried to hide behind.

“It’s a beautiful night tonight,” I whispered, changing the subject.

“Now I’m jealous,” he joked. “I’m stuck in a hotel, and it’s raining here.”

“Ew.”

“Tell me what you see. Tell me about where you are,” he requested. “I’m gonna lie back on the bed, close my eyes, and imagine I’m in the van with you.”

Another anvil. This one lighting a fire up the back of my throat.

Like I had a million times before, I closed my eyes too and imagined his weight dipping the mattress beside me. How many nights had I looked up at the sky and wished he’d been right beside me? How many moments had I closed my eyes to imagine him there, sharing the life we painted when we were kids?

Too many to count.

More than I wanted to admit.

And to have his voice in my ear, it was the closest my dreams came to reality. I just didn’t