Page 8 of Sweet Conviction

Dalton Grady blows in with it, a man with long hair and scars all over his hands pacing at his side.

I freeze, my heart leaping into my freaking throat.

How the heck did he possibly find me here?

I grab the sticky wrapper from my burger, using it to hide my face. What? Desperate times and all that.

I inch a corner of it down to watch him discreetly.

Good lord, the man is sex on legs. My stomach clenches as he strides toward the bar, his handsome face set in grim lines, his muscles flexing with every step. He doesn't even look left or right. He's hyper-focused on something else.

Maybe he isn't here for me?

I lower the wrapper, watching as he and his friend stride up to a man sitting at the bar and pull up stools beside him. Dalton murmurs something.

The man on the stool says something back, and Dalton sighs.

They know each other.

I slide out of the booth, curiosity eating me alive as I inch closer, trying to hear what they're talking about. If eavesdropping is wrong, I'll explain to baby Jesus later.

I manage to find a spot behind a post not even two feet away. I'm so close that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. Which I don't want. Nope. Definitely not. Not even to right that piece of hair standing upright…

"What are you doing, man?" Dalton asks, concern etched in his deep voice. "You shouldn't be here."

"I fucked everything up," the guy rasps, his green eyes focused on his shot glass like it holds the secrets of the universe. "And Isla left."

"Jesus," the guy who came in with Dalton says. "What happened, Brantley?"

Recognition slams into me as soon as the man says his name. Brantley Hill just inherited Hilltop Records here in Nashville after his father, Bellamy, was murdered by the Dixie Mafia over drug money they were owed.

It's been all over the news because half the world is convinced Brantley is the one who owed them, not his father. The music industry is split down the middle on who they think owed the debt.

"They found her sister. Tried to kill her." Brantley scrubs a hand through his dark hair. "It's my goddamn fault, Priest."

"And you think this shit is going to help?" Priest growls at him. "You're supposed to be sober, brother."

Brantley laughs, the sound scraping from his throat. "So everyone keeps telling me. Christ, I'm so fucking tired of this."

My heart aches at the pain in his voice. Whether he was the one who owed the drug money or not, I don't know. But he lost so much. Today, of all days, I can empathize. It's not a good feeling.

"Of what?" Dalton asks.

"The whole goddamn thing," Brantley rasps. "Half the fucking world blames me for what happened, and I let them because I want to protect his memory. I owe him that much. But goddamn. I didn't know it'd cost me everything that mattered."

"Brant, you can't—"

A meaty hand slaps my ass. Hard.

I wheel around to see a drunken cowboy in obscenely tight jeans leering at me.

I don't think. I don't say a word. I just act. My hand darts out, slapping him across the face just as hard as he slapped my ass.

He stumbles back a step, blinking. "You ungrateful bitch! I was just playin' with you."

"How? By assaulting me?" My heart hammers against my ribs as the alcohol on his breath washes over me.

"Assault? You're the one who hit me!"

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