Page 93 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Alabama hums as she paints the front door of the house a brilliant ruby red. The one activity she can do well one-armed. She and Griff have been working all afternoon, and while the sun’s slowly lowering in the sky, it’s still blistering. Texas heat in December is doing them in like nothing else.

She chuckles, thinking about the sheepish look on Griff’s face as he admitted he had found her a physical therapist. She doesn’t know if she could love a man more. The thought of him taking that on for her is doing all kinds of things to her heart. She’s falling hard, falling deep. She wishes her teenage self were here to talk some sense into her, or tell her she’s doing the right thing. But the right thing doesn’t match the feelings in her heart, or the bond between her and Griff. That crackling, glowing bond that has her hoping for the future. For a piece of home with him.

Even her arm can’t get her down. For the first time in a long time, she finds herself looking forward to the what-comes-next. The rest of the tour hangs bright like a guiding light in front of her, but even more, she’s eager to record “Find You Again” with Griff, potentially resurrect the Copper Hounds, pay off the lawyers and finally be free from the shackles of Six String.

She’s lucky. She found all this again.

The image of her copper penny shines bright in her mind. And just like that, she wants it. No, she needs it. Needs that small piece of Alabama back. Because now, she wants to show her past self the way forward.

Splotch.

Alabama glances down to see a thick glob of red paint splashed on the inside of her wrist. Thin tendrils snake their way slowly down her arm. “Shit,” she swears, noticing there’s more on her hands, the front of her plaid shirt stained with red. She growls at her clumsiness but shrugs it off and continues painting.

When she’s finished, she steps back and evaluates her handiwork. She smiles. The front door is as dazzling and as happy as Griff’s mama herself was. He’ll love it.

Glancing over her shoulder, Alabama gives a wistful glance at the For Sale sign swinging in the breeze. It’s a mistake, but she’s come to think of the house as hers. It seems like such a shame to get rid of it, but whoever buys it will be one very lucky owner.

The sound of Griff’s hammer pounding the old tin roof carries across the lawn.

Alabama steps out of the shade of the porch. Across the lawn, Griff works on the barn roof. She smiles. He looks like a sweaty redneck. His shirt off, his ball cap backward. A very sexy, shirtless, sweaty redneck.

Shielding her eyes, she lifts her gaze to the sun. They should have sweet tea like Griff’s mom used to make. And tonight, after the house is quiet and the sun is down, wine and whiskey. With a last glance at Griff, she disappears into the house to make them something cool to drink, thoughts of the future blazing a trail of hope through her mind.

Griff pulls a dented section of roof back with the stud welder. He blows out a breath and curses the sun. The unusual heat wave that rolled in has it hot, too damn hot. He oughta be in the house with Alabama. He oughta be in the house with Alabama in bed. A sly grin plays on his face as he thinks about that teasing smile on her face from earlier today. That flirty drawl that always told him she could give as good as Griff.

The sound of the creaky screen door has him glancing over at the main house.

Coming out from underneath the awning of the porch is Alabama. She’s smiling, calling up to him, her hands outstretched, her palms—

Griff blinks.

Blood.

Fuck. She’s covered in blood.

It’s everywhere.

The sound of a gunshot blasts his skull.

The scent of gunpowder overpowers his nostrils.

The air goes out of his lungs, every vein of his filling up with pure terror.

Griff gives a jerk, desperate to get to her, to stop the blood. He scrambles up, too fast, and slips on the slick panels.

Alabama’s eyes shoot open.

She runs toward him.

He tumbles off the roof, the air rushing around him as he falls to the ground. He lands hard on his shoulder.

Alabama’s panicked voice sounds around him. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he pushes himself up. He grabs her wrist roughly, yanking her into him, and her pleas for him to answer her die off. With fast, frantic hands he wipes at the blood on her shirt, trying to clean it away, trying to staunch the blood. “You’re bleedin’,” he says. “Alabama, you’re bleedin’. We gotta stop it. We gotta stop the blood ...”

“No, no, no,” she says urgently, breaking his grasp to palm his face. “It’s not blood, Griff. It’s paint. It’s paint.”

For a long moment, Griff only stares. Shakes.

She forces his eyes to hers and nods. “Do you hear me? It’s paint ... okay? I’m okay, everything’s okay. It’s just paint.”

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